


An Earlier Heaven

by darkpartofmydestiny



Series: A Life Together [2]
Category: North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: A bit of smut too, F/M, Family Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 43,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23218780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkpartofmydestiny/pseuds/darkpartofmydestiny
Summary: "A happy family is but an earlier heaven" - George Bernard ShawSet in the world of my completed story A Strange Situation, these are basically plotless fluffy happy oneshots that I need to write to cheer myself up during these awful times.  They're in a totally random, non chronological order. Prompts and requests absolutely welcome!Most chapters are a U (G?) rating and totally family friendly. Any E rated chapters are fully labelled so you can skip those if not your taste.
Relationships: Margaret Hale/John Thornton
Series: A Life Together [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1670038
Comments: 167
Kudos: 297





	1. First Words

“More for Mama?” Margaret asked, waiting for the sealed cavern of her son’s mouth to open. “Come on, baby. Eat for Mama.”

The sound of John’s footsteps behind her made her pause, then jump in her place as he wrapped his arms around her waist and placed a kiss on her neck. She looked around to make sure they were alone, save for the squawking infant. 

“Stop it.” His voice was in her ear as she lifted her arm to feed the baby.

“What?” Margaret asked, looking up from the bowl of porridge she was currently trying to feed the whinging baby in front of her. 

“I know exactly what you’re doing.”

“John, I am sure I don’t know-“

Another kiss to her cheek before he pulled away to look at her with a stern expression. What on Earth was he talking about?

“You’re trying to make him say your name first.”

John sat down at the table on the other side of the baby. They had purchased a high chair for him two months previously, placing it at the table so their son might participate in family meals. It was rather unusual; babies were usually fed in the nursery, but Margaret wished to have Arthur grow used to being part of the usual routine of the house. 

Arthur greatly enjoyed sitting with his family at meal times, grinning at them all and enthusiastically bashing his spoon against the table. Hannah, who had always been a stickler for manners, was the most amused of all of them - much to Margaret’s surprise. 

“Darling, don’t be so ridiculous!” Margaret said innocently. “I don’t know why you would think that.”

“Hmm. Evening, son. Can you say Papa?”

The baby steadfastly ignored both of them, turning his head and smacking his lips. John reached out and tickled his chin. Arthur squirmed and giggled in his chair. Margaret sighed; feeding time was always a little easier when her husband was still at work. Still, she loved how much he adored their child. It reminded her of how her own father had behaved towards both of his children; pure love.

Still, she frowned as she returned to the topic at hand.

“It is not a competition, John. Besides, I spent nine months feeling wretched and a considerable amount of time screaming in agony. Don’t I deserve this?”

“I thought it wasn’t a competition?” John turned to her with one eyebrow raised.

She scoffed at that. 

“Please, he is already your mirror image. You’ve won that battle. There’s not a scrap of Hale about him.”

John looked at the baby, now trying to put his own foot in his mouth, a proud expression plain to see on his face. There was no denying the child was a true Thornton, with his thick swirl of dark brown hair and strikingly blue eyes. He was an adorable baby, his beautiful looks bending anyone who looked upon his face to his will. Heaven help them when he was a little older, for Arthur Thornton would have the whole of Milton wrapped around his tiny little finger.

“He has your cheeks, and your nose.”

“I suppose.” Margaret relented. “That hardly makes up for the fact he has your eyes, your hair, your frown..”

“My frown?” John interrupted. 

Margaret laughed, for the very same frown was now firmly in place on her husband’s forehead. She placed the bowl down beside her and reached to tap a finger against the crease between his eyebrows. 

“Yes. Your frown. And your smile, too. Though Arthur’s are far more easily given than yours.”

John smiled then, so broadly that the corners of his eyes crinkled. He smiled more these days; their son had done that to him. If marriage had mellowed him, fatherhood had done so to an even greater extent. 

“How was your day?” Margret asked, resuming her thankless task once more as she waved the spoon near Arthur’s still-closed mouth. 

“Long and busy. You?”

“We went for a lovely walk. Now it is not so wet and foggy, I wrapped us both up warm and carried him to the churchyard. My arms are aching, but it was entirely worth it to see the flowers starting to bloom again.”

“There’s sickness about.” John warned. “Fresh air is all well and good but keep him out of Princeton and away from the schoolroom. I’ve seen the workers pawing at him in the yard an’ all.”

Margaret rolled her eyes; it was true that anytime she took Arthur outside, he would attract a great amount of attention. Men chucking his chubby little chin, young girls fawning over his gummy smile and bright eyes. However, she thought it was wonderful they thought well enough of the Master and his family to behave in such a way. 

“John, they are merely fond of him. I think it’s lovely that they have shown us so much kindness. But very well, I shall listen.”

“I need to go back, I’ve a stack of contracts to read. I wanted to see him before he goes to bed.” John sighed. “I feel like I barely see the lad from one day to the next.”

“I’m sorry, darling. I know you’d like to be with us more, truly I do. But you have a duty to the mill. You are a wonderful father and master both, you know.”

“I’m not sure about that.” John said. “I’ll bring my work over here, to the study. Perhaps you’ll both come and sit with me awhile?”

“Of course. Go, work a little longer while I try and feed our little beast.” 

Arthur began babbling loudly, little “ba ba” sounds (that were absolutely not “pa pa”, Margaret thought to herself) while John merely watched. She often caught him just staring at their child. It made her heart skip to see such love.

“Be good for Mama, you scamp.” John pressed a kiss to the child’s dark hair, and another to his wife’s forehead. “See you later.”

“Goodbye darling. Say bye bye to Papa?” Margaret asked Arthur, who waved his little hand dutifully. 

John waved back, beaming. Arthur had started waving a few weeks before, much to the joy of his delighted parents who thought him quite the cleverest child who had ever lived.

-

An hour later, after Arthur had been bathed and dressed in his tiny little nightgown ready for bed, Margaret took him into the study she and John shared. There was a large armchair in the corner, perfect for curling up and reading in. Arthur yawned, tired and ready for his bed, as he rested his head against her shoulder. Oh, this surely must be heaven.

She had waited so long for her precious baby, but she was certain that every moment of heartache had been worth it. Everything about him was perfect, from his tiny toes to the thick crown of hair on his head. Whatever she had done to deserve such a blessing, she did not know.

“Sorry, sorry.” John said as he pushed open the door with his elbow, his arms full of papers. “I didn’t mean to be so long.”

“It’s quite alright, we’ve only just finished bath time, haven’t we darling?” Margaret asked the sleepy child in her arms, who merely blinked in response. “Say hello to Papa.”

Arthur waved half heartedly, snuggling further into his mother’s arms. John placed his papers on the desk and walked over to kneel in front of them. Arthur held out his arms, and John took him. He groaned as he stood up, and Margaret was sure she heard his knees click.

“When did he get so big?” John said, tapping the end of Arthur’s nose. “I’m sure he was only born last week.”

“Hmm, not quite darling. Almost a year ago now.” Margaret said. “I do hope we can give him a sibling before too long. I should not like him to be lonely.”

“Hey now, don’t think about that now. Right, I suppose I should get on with this. Is he to bed?”

“Yes, I think he is exhausted. All that fresh air.” Margaret yawned herself, suddenly overcome with tiredness. “This chair really is most terribly comfortable. I could fall asleep.”

“I’ll put him to bed.” John said, shifting Arthur on his hip. “Rest.”

“You’re sure? I can ask Dixon-”

“No, I’ll do it. You can come with us if you like, if you think I’ll do something wrong.” John teased. “Mama doesn’t trust me son. She thinks I’ll tuck you in too tight, or forget to read you a story.”

“Of course not!” Margaret laughed. “I think I can trust you, my love. Oh, I am so tired.”

“Rest. Say bye bye to Mama.”

“Mama!” 

Margaret froze. John blinked. Arthur had said her name, as clear as day, and Margaret felt tears spring to her eyes. She grinned broadly.

“Yes, son. That’s your Mama.” John grinned, kissing the top of the dark hair that so closely matched his own. “The finest woman who ever lived.”


	2. The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set around three years after the previous chapter.

“One, two, three-“ 

A deafeningly loud clap of thunder interrupted Margaret’s counting. She had been expecting it ever since the flash of lightning, of course, but it still made her jump. The rain had been falling heavily for hours, wind rattling the windows. It was late, past midnight, yet Margaret felt too restless to settle. 

“Come to bed.” John called to her. “It’s late.”

She stayed where she was, listening to the rain splash down into the puddles in the yard below. It was soothing to hear such sounds, such natural sounds. She had grown so used to the constant roar of the machines that she relished the peace that only came at night. 

“I love watching storms.” Margaret said with a sigh. “I find them fascinating. Don’t you?”

John huffed a disbelieving breath from behind her. She tried not to laugh, but he really was so grumpy when he was tired. He and Arthur shared that particular quality. 

“Not when I’ll have a soaking wet yard and probably some flooding to deal with in the morning, no. Come to bed, you’ll catch a chill.”

Margaret reluctantly turned away from the window just as more lightning illuminated the room. She smiled at John, lit up in his place just for a moment, scowling at her from their bed. 

“I’m quite well. It is rather difficult to sleep when our daughter currently has her foot lodged in my rib.” Margaret ran a hand over the rounded swell of her belly.

“You’re sure it’s a girl this time?”

“Utterly convinced, yes. I feel different. I am carrying differently too.”

“My little psychic wife. I don’t doubt you.” He held out a hand to her. “Come, bed.”

Margaret climbed into the large bed, steadying herself on her hands. Balance was rather difficult, given the huge weight she was carrying around her middle, and John sat up to support her. 

“I feel even less graceful than I did the last time. I am enormous.”

“You are beautiful.”

“You have to say that.” Margaret laughed, pulling the covers up to her shoulders and turning (with some difficulty) to wrap her arms around her husband. 

“No I don’t.” He tried to return her embrace, but something rather got in the way. “Turn the other way love, I can’t get close to you.”

“See!” Margaret said triumphantly as she turned onto her other side. “Enormous!”

“Maybe a little.” John murmured as he pressed himself tightly against her back, his hands lacing with hers and resting on her belly. “But so very beautiful. As ever.”

“She’ll be here soon.” Margaret said softly. “Promise me you’ll stay with me this time?”

“Aye, I promise. Just like I promised this morning, and last night, and yesterday lunchtime..”

“I’m sorry. I just feel a little anxious. There’s Arthur to think about now, if something were to happen-“

That familiar pit of fear was lodged in her chest. Her heart hammered and her chest tightened as it did every time she thought of the impending labour she would go through. Arthur’s had been early, and even though the doctor had told her it was no fault of hers, she had been rather more static in this pregnancy and had entered confinement willingly.

“Shh, shh love. You’ve been resting plenty, the doctor says you are well. I’m not leaving the mill until this baby is here and safely in your arms. Try and sleep.”

“I wonder if I should check on Arthur.” Margaret tried to sit up. “I did not even think! What if he is scared, John? It’s a terrible racket, and there’s not been a storm like this since he was tiny.”

John eased her back down into the bed, kissing her cheek and stroking the long braid she wore her hair in at night. Margaret almost laughed, for it felt like he was trying to soothe an anxious horse when he stroked her hair like that. 

“I think we’d hear him. Besides, Dixon is with him. Sleep, Maggie. If we’re needed, she’ll come and-“

Just like that, their bedroom door burst open and the sound of rapid footsteps filled the room. Before either of them even had time to sit up, their four year old son had thrown himself onto the bed. John rolled away from her, sitting up.

“Son, you shouldn’t just burst in like that.” John said - for this was not the first time their son had seen fit to come into their room at night.

After a rather unfortunate occasion where Arthur had barged in at a rather private moment, Margaret had learned it was important to lock one’s door with a small child around. Arthur had the most peculiar skill of being able to creep past anyone without them noticing. Dixon tore her hair out, muttering that neither Margaret nor Master Frederick had ever eluded her so often. 

“I don’t like it Papa!” Arthur wailed. 

She could hear John making soft shushing sounds, and when she turned over she could see in the dim light of the dying fire that Arthur had buried his face in his father’s shoulder while John rubbed circles on his back. For all his sternness, John was a most loving and surprisingly gentle father. 

“It’s alright son, nothing to be afraid of. Where is Dixon?”

“Snorin’.” Arthur said. 

“Do you want to sleep in here with us?”

“Maggie!” John said in protest. “He’s not slept in here since he was tiny. We’ll spoil him.”

“Please Papa?” Arthur made his voice even tinier than usual. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

Margaret heard John shifting over a little. Sure enough, Arthur carefully wriggled down into the space he had created. Another flash of lighting, and Margaret could see the look of triumph on her son’s face. 

“Fine. Sleep in the middle, and keep those cold toes of yours away from me, lad.”

The following crash of thunder made Arthur yelp. 

“Come to Mama.” Margaret wrapped her arms around him, inhaling the scent of his hair. “It’s alright, Artie. Nothing to be afraid of.”

For around ten minutes, there was silence. Only the soft sounds of Arthur’s snuffly breathing filled the room, and Margaret felt herself drifting into a much needed sleep.

“Ow!” Arthur yelped. 

“What?” Margaret asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Something kicked me!”

“It weren't me.” John grumbled. “Can we all just get some bloody sleep?”

“John!” Margaret tried to stifle her laughter, but she could not. “Oh Arthur I am sorry, I think it was the baby. She is very wriggly at night. Here, give me your hand.”

Arthur warily held out his hand, and Margaret pressed it to her stomach. She could feel the baby moving, the most wonderful feeling in the world, and Arthur yelped just as Margaret felt a strong kick. 

“What are you going to call the baby, Mama?”

“We aren’t sure yet. Penelope is a name your father and I both like.”

Arthur thought about that for a moment. 

“Not Arthur?”

Margaret frowned; what a strange question!

“Why would we call the new baby Arthur? That’s your name.”

“You still want me?” Arthur said in a tiny little voice that very nearly broke Margaret’s heart clean in two. “You won’t get rid of me?”

“Get rid of you? Where on Earth did you get that idea?”

“I was playin’ with LouLou and she said there was only room for one child in every house.”

“Bloody Fanny.” John muttered. “I bet she’s told her that to explain why she’s not got any brothers or sisters.”

Margaret bit her tongue; Fanny had had such an awful time carrying Louise she did not blame her one bit for not wishing to have any more children. However, it became rather problematic when one told tall tales to a six year old. 

“No darling, that isn’t true. This new baby is going to be part of our family, just as you are. Won’t it be nice to have a little sister?”

“I want a brother.”

“Well, we shall see. But no Arthur, we aren’t getting rid of you. We love you so very much.”

“Love you.” Arthur yawned, his little arms wrapping tightly around her neck. “Night Mama. Night baby. Night Papa.”

“Goodnight son.” John’s deep voice was thick with tiredness. “Night Maggie.”

“Goodnight everybody. Arthur, darling, not so tight.” Margaret coughed, reaching up to untangle his arms from her neck. “Go to sleep.”

Outside, the storm continued. Inside, in a jumble of limbs, the Thorntons slept peacefully.


	3. Fathers and Daughters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John contemplates fatherhood and the hold his youngest daughter has over him.

John loved each of his children. Truly, he thanked God each night in his prayers for the four blessings that had come into his life. Arthur, his oldest at nine, was beginning to understand the business he would one day inherit. Penelope, the double of her mother, was six and learning to read and write. The twins were four now, getting under everyone’s feet and causing mischief everywhere they went.

John loved his children with a fierceness he had not known possible.

However, sometimes - just sometimes - he missed having his wife to himself.

Their life as a family of only two seemed a thousand years ago now. Those long, lazy days of their honeymoon were but a distant memory, replaced instead with waking in the middle of the night to comfort crying children.

“Are you alright?” Margaret asked from her place across the desk. “You’ve been staring at me for some time.”

“Eh? Oh, fine. Fine.” 

“Oh, these accounts will surely be the death of me. Would you mind just taking a look over them? I know you’re busy but-”

John just held out his hand, and Margaret handed over the small stack of papers. He looked through them, the careful swirl of Margaret’s familiar handwriting filling each page.

“You’ve spent how much on chalk?” John frowned.

Margaret placed her head in her hands, making a strange kind of groan as she did so. Near enough ten years into parenthood, he knew that groan well. Only the frustrating behaviour of one’s children caused that sound. 

“Joseph stole the whole lot and I still cannot find it.” Margaret rubbed at her forehead. “I don’t know what he’s done with it, honestly I don’t. I’ve checked everywhere I can think of.”

“It’ll turn up in your winter boots, just wait. I’m sure Arthur was never such a thief.”

Arthur had been rather difficult as a young child, always talking and moving. He could not sit still. He has mellowed as he had grown, preferring books over climbing trees these days.

“No, Arthur didn’t take things. He just drove us all mad running around non-stop. Joseph - well, he seems quite a different type of boy.”

“Did you scold him?”

“Yes, but I fear it’s gone quite in one ear and out the other.” Margaret sighed. “He would still not give it up, even after an hour sitting on the stairs and the threat of bread and water for a week. At least the girls are both easy. I think if all four of them were like Arthur and Joseph my nerves could not stand it.”

“Mama!” Right on cue, a high pitched wail sounded outside the door.

“Yes, Susie?” Margaret called. 

“Joseph took Betty!” 

Margaret muttered something under her breath, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. She had the most abundant supply of patience John had ever known; though he loved his children, he did tend to lose his temper in situations like this.

Margaret stood, going to the door and opening it. Susannah stood, bottom lip wobbling fiercely, on the other side. She was bare footed, dressed in only her nightgown. She instantly launched herself at her mother’s leg.

“Where is Dixon, darling?”

“With Penny. I was playin’ and Joseph came in and took Betty.”

Betty was Susannah’s prized possession, a rag doll given to her for her third birthday by her Aunt Fanny. It was the ugliest thing John had ever seen with grotesque button eyes, but Susie loved it dearly.

“Where’s your brother now?”

“I can’t find him!” Susie wailed. “I want her back, Mama.”

“Come now, no tears. Let’s go and find that little rascal. See you in a moment, husband.”

“Papa!” Susie cried, seemingly noticing him for the first time.

She ran at him with her arms outstretched. Margaret watched them with a fond smile on her face. Susie waited for him to lift her up, and John sighed. He pushed away from the desk and lifted her onto his lap. Once she was settled in her favourite seat, she sniffed heavily. 

“Hey, hey. No more of that.” He kissed her hair, dark like his own but significantly longer, and ran a finger down the apple of her cheek. “Mama will go and find your dolly, won’t you Mama?”

“Of course.” Margaret smiled, shaking her head. “That boy, honestly.”

Margaret left to go and find their youngest son, a challenge indeed because he seemed to have a talent for hiding in plain sight. 

“C’mon, no more crying.” John bounced Susie on his knee, making her giggle wildly. He loved that sound, the most marvellous noise in all the world.

It was true what they said about fathers and daughters; his daughters owned him in a way he had never expected. A smile from them had him utterly weakened.

“You spoil those children.” Mother stood in the doorway. 

“Evening, Mother.” John said, knowing the argument that had already happened several times in the past nine years was about to commence again. 

“You coddle them too much, allowing them to run around this house like a pack of wild animals. You were never so reckless as a boy.”

“Aye, perhaps not. But they’re happy, Mother.”

His mother rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. She looked pointedly at the small child curled up on his lap. Susie cheerfully waved at her grandmother, and was rewarded with the smallest twinge of a smile. 

“You were happy too. You did not run around stealing things nor did you shriek like a banshee. This house has turned to madness.”

“Grandmother.” Penelope’s voice echoed down the hallway. “Grandmother, might I ask for your help with this stitch?”

Much to John’s amusement, Penelope spoke almost exactly like her mother. He did not know how it was possible, given that they made the journey to London only once or twice a year. Still, it made him smile that the child that looked most like his wife had her voice too. 

“Do not shout, Penelope Thornton. I’ll be with you in a moment.” Mother called. “Honestly you’d think that girl had never spent a day in the North in her life.”

Penelope, though his mother would never admit it, was her favourite. His mother admired his eldest daughter’s quietness, though there was no denying Penny could stand up for herself when needed. She had a quick mind, shrewd and logical even at such a young age. John admired that too; though the child looked so like Margaret, he recognised himself in her too.

Susie shifted into his lap; he had almost forgotten she was there. 

“Aye well, she spends her days with her mother. Though none of the others talk so well.”

“Excuse me, we speak perfectly well. Anyway, let me go and fix this stitch. Almost to bed with you, Susannah Thornton.” Mother fixed his youngest with a hard stare. “Don’t let her fool you, son.”

“Yes Grandmother.” Susannah said, though her fingers curled around the opening of his shirt. 

His mother left, and it was just John and Susannah alone again. She was sucking her thumb now, as she always did when she was tired. She’d be asleep soon, on top of him if he did not move her soon.

“I’ve work to do, little one.”

“I help?” Susie asked, curling closer to his body. 

“I don’t think so. Cmon, you’re getting too big for this now.”

“Sorry Papa.” She straightened, and made to climb off his knee. 

John felt like an utter monster.

“Maybe just for tonight, eh. Come on, give your Pa a cuddle.” 

Susie threw her arms around him, burying her little face in the crook of his neck. John always thought when he became a parent, he would behave much as his parents had done. Little physical affection, though his mother had always been more tactile with him than his father, with strict rules. Yet when their family had arrived, he found himself quite overwhelmed by the sheer will of the Thornton children. They listened to what they were told (for the majority of the time, anyway) yet the sheer amount of love in their hearts had caught him by surprise. 

One could be a firm master, he realised, and a soft father. His children were disciplined, certainly, but he had never raised a hand to them. Margaret was the most wonderful mother, so very nurturing and creative. It was why she had flourished so well with her schoolroom, she had a natural gift. 

“Will Mama find Betty?” Susie asked in a small voice. “Joseph said he was gonna chop her in half.”

“No he bloody won’t.” John muttered under his breath. “He better not or he’ll be on bread and water for a year.”

“He likes bread and water.” Susie shrugged in the matter of fact way only a child could. “I tired, Papa.”

John smiled; she always dropped back into baby talk when she was tired. She was four, and tried desperately to be as grown up as Penny. She was still the youngest, their baby forever. 

“It’s getting late. You’ve had your bath?”

“Yes Papa.”

“C’mon, I’ll take you to bed.”

“Will you tell me a story?” Susie asked, her face lighting up. 

“Aye, of course. After you’ve said your prayers.”

“Yes Papa.” Susie yawned widely. “Carry?”

“Alright.” John stood, feeling his back creak. He was getting old. “When did you get so big?”

Susie just laughed. 

Later, when Betty has been found and placed beside her sleeping owner, John sat back at his desk. 

“I feel quite exhausted.” Margaret groaned, setting her head down on the desk. “I feel less like a mother and more like a sheepdog, trying to get them all into bed with none of them escaping.”

John laughed. 

“You’re a wonderful shepherdess, my love.”


	4. The Only Way To Travel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating change. I'll always label adult themed chapters, so please feel free to skip if smut isn't your thing.
> 
> John and Margaret say goodbye to their children and travel to London. Contains sexual content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ourkidmolly and mmusic_juliet for the suggestion!

"Will you bring me back a present?” Arthur asked.

Margaret and John were leaving their children with Hannah for several days, while John attended to business in London and Margaret visited Edith. Travelling with four children, particularly the twins who were only just a year old, was an ordeal Margaret did not like to repeat too often. So, it had been decided this particular trip was to be just Margaret and John. It felt very peculiar to travel without the children, for Margaret had never been parted from them for such a long period of time. 

“Arthur!” Margaret scolded. “Presents are not to be demanded. Perhaps if I hear from your Grandmother that you have behaved yourself, you will get something nice.”

“And me?” Penny echoed. “I’ve been good all week, Mama! Arthur’s the one who-”

“Hey, hey, no telling tales.” John interrupted. “Might we say goodbye to you without bickering for once?”

“Yes Papa.” The pair said together, dark heads hung in shame. “Sorry.”

“Now, be good for Grandmother and Dixon. I don’t want to hear a single bad word, do you understand me?” John said, narrowing his eyes. “No fighting, no breaking anything.”

“Come, husband. Of course they will be good. Are you sure you’ll be alright, Grandmother Thornton?” Margaret asked, for she never referred to her mother-in-law by her given name in front of the children. “Are you sure we should not at least take the babies?”

She ignored the small whine of protest from her husband.

“Two one year olds on a train to London? Come, Margaret, they will be just fine.”

Margaret furrowed her brows. 

“But if something should go wrong-”

“Margaret, I know what I am doing. The evidence of my ability to care for children stands beside you.” She gestured towards John. “You will surely miss your train if you insist on this protest much longer.”

“She’s right Margaret. We need to go.”

“Next time we will take you with us.” Margaret knelt and kissed the two eldest on each of their cheeks. “I shall send your love to your cousins.”

Edith’s children - all five of them now, Sholto, Ranulph, Grace, Hamish and Rose - were a rather strange brood. They were almost unnervingly quiet, polite to a fault - and very, very naughty. They were unlike Arthur, who was naughty almost entirely by accident. No, the Lennox children had formed a rather baffling way of misbehaving. They worked as a team and were nearly impossible to catch in the act. Edith tore her hair out and was forced to employ new nannies as often as she bought a new hat.

“Ranulph broke my best spinning top.” Arthur pouted, folding his arms and frowning furiously. “I don’t send him my love.”

“Arthur!”

“It’s true. And he pinched me.”

“Enough.” Hannah said firmly before Margaret could respond. “Say goodbye to your mother and father and then we shall go to the nursery and practise your alphabet.”

“Goodbye Mother, goodbye Father.” Arthur said. “Have a safe journey.”

“Thank you dear.” Margaret kissed him again. “Please Artie, please be a good boy. Be kind to your sister, and the babies.”

“Bye Papa.” Penny made a little grabbing motion with her hands, and John dutifully lifted her up. She snuggled closely to him, and Margaret stroked her hair. “Mama!”

“Come on John, we really shall miss the train.”

When eventually all the goodbyes had been said and the couple were settled in a private compartment on the Southbound train, Margaret sighed.

“What?” John asked, not looking up from his papers.

He had removed his jacket, and Margaret was reminded of their first train journey together. How they had spent an hour pressed closely together, kissing and hesitantly touching. How scandalous it had been, how bold they were.

“I was just having a little sentimental moment, that’s all.”

“Oh aye?”

“Our first train journey.” Margaret smiled. “Do you remember, husband?”

“I’m not so old I’d forget that. God, we’ve been married near ten years now.” John leaned his head back against the cushioned seat of the train carriage. “It’s gone quick.”

“Indeed it has. So much has changed.” Margaret smiled, leaning her head against his shoulder and closing her eyes.

The motion of the train made her rather tired, like a baby being rocked to sleep. Joseph was cutting another tooth and sleep had been rather scarce these past few days. Though of course she would miss them, it was a nice change to spend time with only her husband for a little while.

“Maggie, listen to that.” John said, his voice jarring her from her doze.

Margaret could hear nothing but the rattling of the train.

“What am I supposed to be listening to?” Margaret frowned. “I can’t hear anything.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” She asked with a frown.

John nodded. He stretched his arms up over his head. He wrapped one around Margaret’s shoulders, pulling her closer. Her head rested against the fabric of his waistcoat, her cheek resting against the bulge of his pocket watch. 

“When was the last time we heard nothing during the middle of the day? No crying, no screaming, no incessant questions about what would win in a fight, a lion or a dragon..”

“The dragon, obviously.” Margaret laughed. “Oh, you’re right. I miss them though. Don’t you?”

“It’s been an hour.”

“You know what I mean. I can’t imagine life without them, nor would I wish to.”

“I know, love. I’m only joking. Aye, I’ll miss them, course I will. It’s three days, just three days. I’ve booked us a nice room in a fine hotel. It shall almost be like our honeymoon again.”

She did not miss the fact he had placed his papers on the bench beside him - nor that his hand was now creeping up the bodice of her dress. She batted him away, only to find he had leaned closer, his breath tickling at her ear. She closed her eyes, swallowing heavily. She knew what he was about. She cleared her throat, looking at him with a raised eyebrow,

“Yes, except you did not have endless meetings to attend on our honeymoon.” She pointed out, for their schedule whilst in London was indeed full of business appointments.

“On the contrary, wife. I believe I attended several meetings with you. In bed, on the floor, against that tree..” He spoke directly into her ear, almost a whisper; yet the tone of his voice was so dark she felt her toes curl in her shoes.

“John!”

“You remember the night I made you come five times?” He whispered in her ear. 

Oh.

“John.” Magaret could not move. “John, please..”

She meant to say please stop, behave yourself, we are on a train. Instead, as his teeth nipped at a spot just by her hair, she shuddered helplessly. It had been so long since they had been alone with no chance of interruption - there was at least half an hour before the next station by her estimation.

No! No, she was a married woman and a mother of four. It was not proper to be thinking of such things in a train carriage. And if she was wrong about the length of the journey - well, it would be utterly mortifying to be caught.

“Aye, that’s what you said then too.” His lips traced from her ear to her neck, kissing his way down until he met the high collar of her dress. “I think I was an amateur, for I feel confident eight is an attainable goal now..”

The blush surely extended from Margaret’s cheeks right to the very tips of her toes. 

“You are incorrigible.”

“I am a man besotted.”

“Still?”

“Forever, Maggie. Forever yours.”

He kissed her then, a well practised kiss that turned her knees to jelly everytime his lips touched hers. How could it be that the passion between them had not been dulled, no matter the passing years? She felt like her young self again, though she neared thirty and had changed in so many ways since then.

“John, we can’t.”

“We can. We’ve a good half hour before the next station, I know this route like the back of my hand.”

“What if the next carriage were to hear us?”

“Then you need to be quiet.”

He caught a bunch of her skirts in his hand and wrenched it up. She squealed, laughing helplessly as he tickled her thigh. She could not remember the last time he had been so playful. His smile was broad as he hungrily swept his eyes over her body; despite his laughter, there was lust clear to see on his face. 

“John, you cannot be suggesting we - on a train! There is hardly enough room.”

“Get on my lap.” He bit out, his hand creeping up and cupping her through the opening of her drawers. She whimpered, a needy sound that she could not help. “Christ, stop wasting time and let me fuck you.”

“John!”

His hand fiddled with the buttons of her dress, unhooking a few and slipping his hand inside her dress. He stroked at the swell of her breasts, still hidden beneath her chemise. Margaret’s heart was racing, her breath caught as he pinched her nipple. 

“We’ve four children, Maggie. Are you so easily shocked?”

“If we were caught -!”

The hand currently pressed between her legs was moving, one long finger pressing inside her. He hissed as he did so, muttering under his breath as his eyes slid shut.

“We won’t, I promise. I’ll keep an eye out.”

Margaret hesitated, but the near painful throb between her legs screamed at her to stop thinking. She sighed, wishing she could suppress the grin she felt spreading on her face. She wanted this, wanted him as desperately as she ever had.

She stood up, and her husband shifted himself to the middle of the bench.

“You are sure nobody shall see us?” Margaret asked, watching as John undid the fastenings of his trousers. “This feels so wrong.” 

The train was currently in the countryside. Green fields flashed by the window, and John gestured towards them.

“Perhaps a sheep.” John said, stroking himself as he watched her. “It is not wrong. Loving you is never wrong.”

Taking a deep breath, Margaret stepped forward and arranged herself rather awkwardly. Her knees were either side of John’s hips, her chest almost pressed into his face. She lifted her skirts, the vast volume of petticoats creating a shield around them. John’s hands were beneath her skirts too, and he stroked at her.

“You’re perfect.” He whispered, leaning up to try and reach her face. “Ride me, Maggie.”

“John, you know what it does to me when you speak to me in that way.”

“No? What does it do to you, my wicked wife?”

“Drives me wild.” Margaret sank down onto him. “Oh, this certainly feels wicked.”

John’s hands beneath her skirts gripped at her thighs, so tightly she was sure he would bruise her. She didn’t care. Let him bruise her, let him mark her. She was his, and she revelled in every mark that proved it. 

“Christ.” He hissed, bucking up into her. “You always feel so fucking good.”

Margaret said nothing about the filthy language falling from his lips. It had been some months since they had lain together; the mill and their children took up all of their energies, and she was unashamed to admit they had both been far too exhausted to think of lying together. But this, this uninhibited, utterly inappropriate union was exquisite.

The rhythm of the train rocked them, though Margaret set a pace of her own that was fast and desperate. It had been so long, and as much as she had tried to resist it this was all rather exciting. She was moving so quickly she was almost bouncing on him. It was sinful, surely, to behave like this in a place that was so public.

“Yes, yes.” John hissed beneath her, his eyes screwed shut. “Just like that, please. Please.”

It continued like that, relentless and desperate and breathtaking. She lost track of time. She could not think of anything that was not this delicious feeling, of her husband so deep inside her, of the relief of being so close to him after months apart.

“I’m close.” Margaret murmured, her hands tight against the fabric of his shirt as she anchored herself. She felt as though she would implode, her muscles were so tight as she neared climax. Her thighs were a vice around John’s still clothed legs, her knuckles white as she held him with a powerful grip.

“God, come for me. Come all over my cock, Maggie. My Maggie, my beautiful girl. Please. Please.”

She wanted to scream with it, the powerful release that claimed her. She felt as though she was cracking in two with it, falling forward with the sheer force. John clawed at her back, thrusting up in a broken rhythm as he near-sobbed his release against her shoulder.

John’s chest was heaving as Margaret moved herself off him, collapsing in a boneless heap next to him. He fastened his trousers, though Margaret could see the trembling of his hands. The train began to slow as they approached the station. 

They both looked at each other, and broke into loud, joyful laughter.


	5. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret is impatiently waiting for the arrival of her second child when she hears of something that might help speed things up a little..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains adult content.

The first three weeks of her confinement were fine. It made things a little easier having Arthur, for he made a fine companion. The pair spent hours reading together, his head resting on the large bump of her stomach as she rested in bed. It was a little unusual, and had resorted in much mumbling from her mother-in-law, but Margaret treasured the time she spent with her son. She knew once the new baby arrived, it would be that much harder to spend time with Arthur just she and him.

The fourth week was utterly miserable. Doctor Donaldson had predicted the birth would be the previous week, yet there were no signs of the baby making any sort of exit. Margaret felt huge, swollen and utterly miserable.

“Is there anything I can do to get this baby on her way?” Margaret asked Doctor Donaldson on his daily visit.

He merely chuckled. Margaret wanted to throw her slipper at his head.

“No, Mrs Thornton. You must wait until the babe decides it is time, unfortunately. It will not be too long now, I assure you.”

“You said that yesterday.” Margaret said through gritted teeth. “The day before, too.”

“Well, one can’t predict these things. Rest, Mrs Thornton.”

“I have done nothing but!” Margaret protested. “Surely I could get dressed and perhaps go for a very short walk?”

Doctor Donaldson rubbed at his chin, as he always did when he was thinking. Margaret had seen him do it so often this past week it now drove her utterly mad. Everything about Doctor Donaldson annoyed her at the moment.

“There is no harm in dressing, but walk in the house only. It is mighty cold out there Mrs Thornton. I should not like you to slip.”

It was November, and the weather had indeed taken a cold turn. Still, Margaret would take great care and ask Dixon to accompany her. It did not seem an outlandish request - more a practical one. Though she understood the importance of rest at this late stage, she really did feel most terribly idle.

“I would not go alone. Please, I think some fresh air-“

“You heard him.” John’s voice caught her by surprise. “Stop arguing, Margaret.”

John annoyed her too. He had promised that he would be here for the birth, and had been coming in and out of the house to check on her almost hourly. Considering there had been no signs at all that the baby was coming, it just proved to be incredibly irritating.

“Very well.” Margaret bit her tongue, for she knew she had no chance winning this particular battle. “John, would you mind fetching Dixon to help me dress? Doctor Donaldson says it is fine, don’t you Doctor?”

“Aye, as long as she doesn’t leave the house.”

“I shall stay here.” Margaret promised, through slightly gritted teeth. “John, help me up before you go.”

“I’ll take my leave. Good day.” The doctor shook John’s hand and left the room.

“He tells me the same thing every damn day.” Margaret muttered, so furious she did not even notice herself cursing. “Any day now. This baby is almost a week later than he thought she would be! If I grow any larger I will surely burst!”

“Mrs Slickson is here.” John said as he pulled her up. “She knows you are confined, she is taking tea with my mother and asked after you.”

Margaret had seen nobody besides her husband, mother in law, son and servants for some weeks now. The prospect of fresh company was most exciting indeed. Mrs Slickson was a friend; not a close one, perhaps, but Margaret admired her very much.

“I shall get dressed and see her, please ask her to wait. Why are you here? It is the middle of the day.”

“I saw the doctor coming in and I wanted to see how you were.” John shrugged.

“Nothing has changed.” Margaret said, rubbing at her back. “No baby.”

“I can see that.” John said, straight faced. “I’ll tell Mrs Slickson you’ll see her, and fetch Dixon. Do not stay on your feet too long, Maggie.”

“I won’t.”

A while later, after she was dressed and at least a little presentable, Margaret took tea with Mrs Slickson. Hannah had excused herself to do something, leaving the two women alone.

“Mrs Thornton tells me the baby is a little later than expected?” Mrs Slickson asked, sipping her tea. “You poor dear. Samuel was late too, in the height of summer. Oh, I was miserable!”

“I am getting a little uncomfortable, yes.” Margaret admitted. “Still, as long as the babe is healthy that is all that matters.”

“You know, there are things that can be done.” Mrs Slickson said, a glint in her eye that Margaret could not quite place. “To speed things along.”

Margaret blanched at this; surely, the doctor would not keep such secrets from her! Oh, if he had been hiding something that would end this misery sooner, she would have his head.

“Doctor Donaldson said there was nothing!”

Mrs Slickson gave a little snort of laughter.

“Oh, I am certain Doctor Donaldson would not tell you of this, that is if he even knows of it! Now, I don’t want to shock you Mrs Thornton-”

“Margaret, please.”

“Margaret, but I remember how very uncomfortable I was. My sister told me this, and I remember blushing most fiercely!”

Margaret frowned.

“What are you trying to say?”

“Lie with your husband, Margaret.” Mrs Slickson whispered, leaning forward so that they would not be overheard. “Tonight. It is an old trick to send an overdue babe on its way.”

“That’s what got me here in the first place.” Margaret joked, though she felt shocked to even be discussing such a thing. “You are certain?”

“Yes! I am sorry, dear, you’ve gone quite red! I have shocked you, I am sorry. I never do know when to hold my tongue.”

“No, no I must thank you for telling me. It is surely worth a try.”

* * *

That night, as John lay beside her in their bed, Margaret thought on what her friend had said. Margaret shifted; she was lying on several pillows, the only way she could get comfortable. Tonight, even that was not working. She felt restless. John was silent beside her, though she could hear from the pattern of his breathing that he was not asleep yet.

“John.” She whispered.

He moved a little beside her, turning onto his side.

“Mmm?” His voice was thick with tiredness, and Margaret suddenly felt rather guilty for waiting until he was almost asleep to voice her plan.

“I can’t sleep.”

“Shh.”

Margaret kicked him. She did not mean to, but it was as though her leg acted of its own accord before her mind could tell it to stop. John jumped; she had got him right in the shin.

“Oi!”

“Oh, I am sorry. Muscle twitch.”

“A likely story, minx. Sleep Maggie.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“I’m not surprised with all the talkin’ you’re doin’.” He muttered, turning over and wrapping an arm over the vast bump of her belly. He was warm against her back.

“It is rather hard to get comfortable when I am the size of a hippopotamus.”

She wriggled a little, trying in vain to get comfortable. John exhaled sharply, his hand moving from her stomach to the edge of her hip. His fingers curled around her, pulling her closer so her backside rested flush against him.

“No wriggling.” He bit out. “Christ, no wriggling.”

“I am just trying to get comfortable.”

She did it again. And again.

“Maggie.” He warned, slightly breathlessly.

“I was speaking with Mrs Slickson today.”

“Don’t make me think about Mrs Slickson, Margaret.” He said, grinding himself shamelessly against her. “Not now.”

“She said there is a way to bring on labour with a baby who does not wish to leave.”

“Right..”

Margaret wiggled again.

“Involving..this.”

“Margaret.” He groaned. He lifted the braid her hair was in, finding the juncture of her neck and shoulder and kissing her there, just once. “Don’t take this the wrong way, my darling, but aren’t you - aren’t you a little large?”

Margaret felt as though he had slapped her.

“Of course. I’m sorry, go to sleep.”

“Maggie, I didn’t mean-“

“Goodnight.”

“Maggie!”

“What?”

“I just meant - we have not - for weeks because you were uncomfortable. I don’t want to cause you pain just because Mrs Slickson has given you some old wives tale that may not even work.”

“I miss you. I miss being close to you in this way, I really do. In truth, these past weeks I have found myself most distracted by it. And if it will help send this baby on her way, all the better.”

“You’ll have no complaints from me.” He mumbled as he caught a huge bunch of her nightgown in his hand. “Stay there.”

“John..”

“Oh fuck.” He hissed in her ear as he touched her where she need it most. “You’re so wet.”

Margaret whimpered. How quickly he could ignite passion in her, with the mere tone of his voice. How quickly he made her wild, how she melted beneath his touch.

“Are you comfortable like this?”

“Yes.” She whispered, sighing as he touched her gently. “Oh, yes.”

“If we did it like this, you would not have to exert yourself too much.” He said in her ear.

She felt the hard length of him pressing against her, and she moaned.

“Just - just take me.”

“You’re ready? I’ll not hurt you Maggie, not for anything.”

“Yes, yes I’m ready. Please.”

He hooked his arm beneath her knee, lifting up her leg and sliding his own beneath it. They had never lain together like this; it felt rather forbidden, but truly Margaret did not care. The weight of her stomach was considerable; this seemed the most practical way about it. Besides, after near five years of marriage she was past caring what an outsider might think. It was only she and John who mattered when it came to this. Judging by the breathless moaning in her ear as he entered her, he was quite satisfied.

“Oh, Christ.”

Margaret whimpered as he took her slowly, too slowly. He was treating her far too delicately. She waited for him to increase his pace, but many minutes passed with the same, hesitant motions. It was most frustrating indeed.

“Harder.”

He stopped altogether.

“I’ll hurt you.”

“No, you won’t. Harder, please. Like you normally would.”

“Maggie-”

“Fuck me, John. That is what I need from you.” She hid her face in the pillow, knowing her demand was most wanton indeed.

He growled, biting her earlobe and granting her request. His hands moved to her waist, large fingers splayed over her back as he rutted into her. Oh. Her toes curled and she arched into him. It was as though every feeling was magnified, pleasure shooting through her like sparks.

“Like that?” He asked after one particularly hard thrust that had her biting her hand to stop from screaming. “You like it hard, wife?”

She could not answer him, for the sparks had turned into a raging fire. She sobbed, vaguely aware that John’s thrusts grew more erratic as he too fell apart. Their stamina may not have been what it once was, but it was no less pleasurable.

Margaret sighed contentedly, her eyes at once growing heavy.

“Thank you darling.” She sighed.

“If that doesn’t work,” John panted, rolling away from her in the darkness. “I’ll happily try again tomorrow.”


	6. A New Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret gives birth to her daughter, John is by her side.

Margaret wasn’t sure if it was Mrs Slickson’s advice or pure coincidence, but in the early hours of the next morning she awoke to a familiar dull ache radiating through her stomach.

She lay in the darkness, hands on the tense skin of her stomach. She took deep breaths, trying to focus elsewhere. As odd as it felt to say, she was thankful for this gentle start to her birth. No rushing, no worrying about John getting home in time.

“John.” She turned to see the dull, shadowy outline of her husband’s sleeping body. She sat up and placed her hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

“Huh?” He mumbled, reaching out blindly for her. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m in labour, I think.”

He sat bolt upright.

“What do you need?”

She reached over and gently pushed his shoulders down, so he was lying back down.

“Nothing, nothing. My waters have not broken, I just have some pain. I’m sorry, go back to sleep. It shall be a long day. I should not have woken you, I’m sorry.” She lay down on her side, resting her face on his chest. “Are you sure you shall stay with me?”

“Aye, Maggie. If you want me, that’s where I’ll be.”

“It will not be pleasant.” Margaret warned, for surely the thousandth time since she had realised she was expecting their second child.

“I saw a little of it before. Margaret, if you have changed your mind, I shall sit on a chair outside the door. Whatever you wish.”

“It could take hours. I think I was particularly lucky to have such a quick birth. I have heard stories of it lasting for days.”

“Are you scared?” John asked, brushing the wispy tendrils of hair on her forehead with his thumb.

“A little. What if - what if something goes wrong? There is Arthur to think of now. It is no longer just you and I.”

“Nothing will happen. And if something should - which it will not..” John’s voice faded a little, his arms tighter around her for a moment. “I promise I will love him, Maggie. Raise him as you would. That is the last we will speak of it.”

“Thank you.” Margaret yawned, just as another wave of pain spread over her. “I think I shall try and sleep a little more.”

It was funny to imagine sleeping through pain, but it was not so bad at the moment. She was tired, almost overwhelmingly so, and she knew from memory that birthing was almost crushingly exhausting.

“Rest, as much as you need. Do you want to move to the birthing bed?”

“I suppose I should.” Margaret sighed. “But I am warm here and you make an excellent pillow, sir.”

She felt the chuckle vibrate in his chest. She smiled, snuggling closer to him and breathing deeply. A few moments of peace. She tried to ignore the little stab of fear she felt, focusing instead in the steady rise and fall of John’s chest.

“Rest, darling. I’ll be here.”

When she opened her eyes, the room was filled with the strange sort of sunlight you only found in winter. Margaret winced; her back ached rather badly, just as it had done during her labour with Arthur.

John was asleep beside her still, far later than he would usually be in bed. When she looked at him properly, she realised he was fully dressed save for his jacket and shoes, lying on top of the covers. Margaret smiled, reaching out to brush her fingertips along the slight stubble on his jaw.

“Maggie?” His eyes opened sharply, and Margaret felt a stab of guilt for making him panic.

“Shh, shh. I am fine. I’m sorry for waking you.”

“I told Mother you think it is time.” He mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. “When you are ready, the birthing room is ready for you. I didn't mean to fall asleep, I was just lying beside you watching you.”

“I should see Arthur before Dixon takes him to Fanny’s house.” Margaret sat up, stretching her arms over her head. “Has he gone? Please say he’s still here.”

It had been agreed that Fanny would take care of Arthur, with Dixon’s assistance, while Margaret laboured. It was not a suitable thing for a child so young to hear; Margaret was certain he would be confused, and scared. No, better he was occupied and playing happily with his cousin.

“Shh, he’s not gone yet. I’ll bring him here. Rest.”

Margaret watched as John left. Another contraction came, rather sharper than they had been before her sleep. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Tears sprang to her eyes with the pain of it, and she clenched her hands into fists.

“We’ll come back.” John’s voice stirred her. “Mama is not feeling well.”

“No, no.” Margaret said, as the pain began to ebb away. “Come in.”

“Good morning, Mama.” Arthur called happily to her, launching himself on the bed.

The sudden impact and dipping of the mattress made Margaret wince.

“Hey, hey.” John scolded him. “I told you, you’re to be gentle with Mama.”

“The baby come?” Arthur asked in his little voice. His words were still clumsy and babyish, and while other parents might hurry to correct their children, Margaret rather liked it.

“Soon, Artie. Dixon will take you to play with Louise. When you come home, our new baby will be here waiting for you.”

“A brother?” Arthur asked.

Margaret smiled; she was most certain indeed that the child inside her was a girl, but it was no good telling a three year old that. She did not want to upset him - he so had his mind set on a brother. Perhaps once he met the baby he would change his mind and be happy with a sister.

“I don’t know darling. A brother or a sister.”

Arthur thought about that for a moment, and shrugged.

“Give your mother a kiss, son.” John said. “It’s time to go now.”

“I love you.” Margaret held his little hand in hers. She felt tears welling in her eyes, but she forced them back. “Be good for Dixon and Aunt Watson please. No fighting, no pulling Louise’s hair.”

“Yes Mama.” Arthur reached up and pecked the apple of her cheek. He did it again, and again, with a big smacking sound that made Margaret almost collapse into giggles.

“Come on, son.” John lifted him from the bed, settling him on his hip. “Back in a moment.”

Margaret watched them go. Her boy, and her husband. She was so blessed to have a husband who cared so much for his own children. A boy as strong willed as Arthur needed a firm hand, but a loving one too. She could not imagine what life would be like if John was a cruel father.

She ran a hand over her stomach, feeling it turn hard beneath her palm as another contraction began. Oh, she had forgotten just quite how much this hurt. Three years certainly dulled the mind to the reality of childbirth.

She stood, remembering that she found a little relief last time in walking around. She made a little list in her mind of all that needed to be done. Her hair was still in a braid from sleep, safely out of the way. Her nightgown would be perfectly sufficient, there was no need to change that. Perhaps she should have a glass of water, for she felt rather sick.

She steadied herself against the cot, ready for its new occupant. She ran her hands over the wood, looking down at the empty mattress. God willing, by the end of this day a new Thornton would be sleeping peacefully inside.

“He’s gone.” John was back. “Should you be up and about?”

“I’m fine, John. Walking helps ease the pressure a little. I was just making a list in my mind, I find it keeps my thoughts from the pain. ”

“A list?”

“Of all the things I have to do, but I think I have already done most of them.” Margaret said. “Oh, my back.”

Another contraction, stronger this time. She breathed deeply, trying to focus on the feel of the wood beneath her fingers, the carpet beneath her feet. Anything but the pain.

“Do you need the doctor?”

“Call for him soon, but I think it might be a little early. Arthur’s birth was a little more frantic.” She laughed at the memory of it. “This is positively relaxed in comparison.”

“I’m sorry I was not there.” John kissed the top of her head, pressing himself against her back and placing his hands on her stomach. “I should never have left you.”

“Surely you do not feel guilty all these years later? You could not have known he would come early.” Margaret relaxed as the contraction eased. “John, you know birth is a rather - oh. I don’t know. The only word I can think of is disgusting, in truth. Are you sure you will not think differently of me?”

“I’ve read about it. A medical book that was so graphic I think I am now prepared for anything.”

Margaret was most surprised indeed; she had certainly not seen such a book!

“Where on earth did you find that?!”

“Doctor Donaldson lent it me, when he found out you intended on having me there. He doesn’t want me in the way.” John kissed her forehead. “Or to faint.”

Margaret laughed at the thought of her stoic, practical husband fainting at the sight of blood. It was most unlikely. She was surprised to hear that John had discussed his intentions to stay with her with Doctor Donaldson, for neither of the men had mentioned it to her.

“He has spoken to you about it?”

“Aye, I think to discourage me from it. He’s never had a father in the delivery room.”

Margaret felt a little pitter patter of nerves in her chest. Perhaps she was asking too much, breaking too many unspoken rules. Hannah had tried to gently dissuade her from it once she found out their plan, and Fanny had quite frankly been horrified. Still, she felt like the entire thing would be a little less awful if he were by her side. How awful it felt, to be torn between what was expected of one by society - and what one truly desired.

“Perhaps it is a silly idea. I will be quite alright.”

John’s eyes narrowed, his hands rubbing wide, soothing circles on her back. He shook his head, pulling her to him. They stood, separated only by the enormous curve of Margaret’s stomach, in silence. He occasionally made tiny little soothing sounds as he continued the pattern on her back. The nerves eased as she breathed deeply.

“Maggie. Do what you want, what is best for you. You think I care what other men do? If you want me with you, wild dogs will not tear me from the side.”

“Perhaps towards the end you could come in.” Margaret said. “For I feel rather embarrassed knowing you will see me in such a way. Towards the end, I will not care.”

“Margaret. Put aside your pride, for I do not care how I see you. You are beautiful, brave. I saw it with Arthur, and if it makes you feel a little better I shall look only as your head. Mother has already made me promise as much.”

“Oh, darling.” Margaret frowned, for she felt a strange trickling sensation between her legs. “Perhaps now it is time to call for the doctor.”

* * *

Some hours later, when the sky had turned dark, Margaret no longer cared who saw her. She was in such intense pain that the Queen herself could have been standing at the end of the bed and Margaret would not have given a fig.

John sat beside her, on a chair facing the wall so he could only see her upper body (a compromise reluctantly reached between John and his mother, who was still utterly horrified at the presence of a man at a birth). Margaret lay on her side, the usual position for giving birth, clasping both of his hands in hers. He had been here the entire time, soothing her and mopping her brow. She felt much calmer having him here, his low voice and practical nature a great source of comfort.

Hannah, too, was present for the birth, though she came in and out of the room. Margaret was not sure what she was doing, but she served as an extra pair of hands for the doctor. As John was banned from looking anywhere other than Margaret’s face, that proved rather handy.

Margaret was grateful for the assistance of her mother-in-law, for she was efficient and calm - just like her son. Fanny was not present, and that proved for a rather calmer experience than Margaret’s previous labour. Margaret could not stand too much noise when she was in so much pain. Everything felt irritating, like ants biting at her skin.

“Very good, Mrs Thornton. Push a little more.”

Doctor Donaldson’s voice in particular was rather grating, for he would not stop telling her what to do.

“I can’t!” Margaret cried, for she felt fatigue in every inch of her body. It was as though a stone rested on her back. “I can’t.”

“You can, love. You must.” John kissed her forehead, though it was surely damp and rather unpleasant. Her whole face felt like it was on fire. “You can do this, Maggie. Please.”

“It hurts!” Margaret protested, her head lolling forward as pain almost ripped through her. “Ah!”

“I can see the head now, Mrs Thornton.”

Margaret sobbed. She could not help it. Everything hurt, this was too hard. She was so tired.

“She’s nearly here, Maggie.” John soothed. “It’s almost over, I promise.”

He had kicked the chair away, kneeling besides her on the floor so his eyes were level with hers. She looked at him, into those familiar blue eyes. She focused only on those as she pushed, willing her body to do what it must and end this agony. John stared back, his face unmoving as he focused only on her.

Margaret did not know how long had passed, but the harsh, high pitched cry of a newborn baby broke through the silence in her mind. She sighed, relieved the worst was over now, relieved her baby was finally here.

“A girl, Mrs Thornton.”

Margaret closed her eyes in relief. A girl, born safely. That was all she wished for, all she had prayed for. John stroked her face, and she reluctantly opened her eyes. He was smiling, not a broad smile but a tiny, secret smile that was just for her.

“A girl, Maggie. You were right all along.”

Margaret smiled weakly, so tired that all she wanted to do was sleep. Sleep, and hold her baby. There were too many people around her, the room was far too hot. Everything felt close and suffocating.

“Can I see her?” She croaked, for her throat was most dry indeed.

She tried to turn to look for the baby, but Doctor Donaldson gripped her thighs and kept her in place. She had given birth on her side, a position intended to reduce the amount the doctor and expectant mother had to look at each other. An absurd tradition; Margaret really did not care. Dignity had little place in childbirth, she knew that much.

“In a moment, Mrs Thornton.” Doctor Donaldson said.

“Mother’s cleaning her.” John explained, his thumb stroking down the length of her cheek. Those blue eyes she had stared at so intently glistened with tears. “I’m right proud of you, love.”

“It was nothing.” Margaret exhaled. “You can go and tell the servants, John. You are not needed for this part.”

“Alright.” He kissed her, full on the lips. “You were astounding.”

Margaret shook her head; she had only done what countless women did every day.

“Well done, Margaret.” Hannah said, though Margaret could not see her. “She’s a fine little thing. I’ll bring her to you when she is clean.”

“Thank you.”

Some time later, when the doctor had left and John was back by her side. The sheets had been changed, and Margaret had washed. She was sore, very sore, but none of that mattered - for she held the most wonderful reward for all of that misery in her arms.

A girl, with rosebud lips and rounded cheeks just like her brother. Though this precious babe did not have her father’s dark hair. In fact, she hardly had any hair at all. There was merely a dusting of hair that could have been brown if there was just a little more of it. Ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes, all present and correct.

“She’s beautiful.” John murmured, his large finger trapped in the tiny fist of Miss Thornton. “I forgot how small they are when they’re babies.”

“She’s bigger than Arthur was.” Margaret whispered, looking down at her daughter. “A name, husband.”

“Penelope, like you’ve said. Penelope Margaret.”

“We shall have to be rather more creative with the next one.” Margaret sighed. “We’ll have to look beyond ourselves.”

“She’s not two hours old and you are already planning our next?” John asked with a low chuckle.

“Merely looking to the future, John.” Margaret yawned widely. “I want to sleep in our bed, beside you.”

Margaret knew it was not usual to leave the birthing bed so quickly, but in truth she felt one bed did not differ from another. John was not squeamish as other men were, nor repulsed by her body after the ordeal she had just been through. In addition, he welcomed his children into the master bedroom, rather than insisting they sleep in the nursery. Perhaps outsiders looked on their arrangements as strange or unusual; Margaret did not care. She relished being close to her family, having her baby beside her and her husband too.

“Alright.” John agreed. “Hello, Penelope.”

The baby merely yawned.


	7. Cotton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret is insecure about her body and has shied away from her husband. Infuriated, she finds a way to take back control.
> 
> This chapter contains sexual content.

Margaret did not consider herself a vain person. She did not spend hours fixing her hair, nor did she purchase new clothes more often than was necessary. She did not rouge her cheeks, nor seperate her eyelashes with a needle as she knew some to do.

However, she currently found herself obsessed with her own figure.

Two children had rather changed her. Her waist was less defined, her whole body thicker and more rounded. Though she thanked God in her prayers each night for safely delivering her of two such wonderful blessings, there was no denying things were different. Penelope was five months old now, and Margaret found herself exhausted by the challenges having more than one child brought. She looked tired, dark circles beneath her eyes. She could not hide those from her husband, but she could hide her body with ease.

Margaret had not allowed John to see her in any state of undress in all that time. She was too aware of the roundness of her stomach, the almost ludicrous fullness of her breasts. She did not feel herself; she had been so occupied in first her pregnancy and then nursing her baby, she felt like she had lost that part of herself. She had almost forgotten how to be the wife she once was.

She missed him. She missed the closeness of his embrace, the feel of him inside her, his arms round her, his lips on her skin. She had recovered from the birth now and was quite ready to know her husband once more, yet something in her mind was holding her back.

There was a cruel voice in her head that spoke to her when her husband tried to move closer to her when they lay in bed.

_Ugly. Grotesque. Enormous. Swollen. Fat._

John had noticed that something was wrong. He would have been a fool not to notice, in truth. There were too many rejected embraces, too many nights where Margaret had gone to bed too early. There had been several nights where Margaret had slept in the nursery claiming Arthur had a cold, though he seemed perfectly well.

He had asked her what was the matter, and she had lied to him. She had told him nothing was wrong, that she was just a little tired. He did not push her, did not press her - he simply kissed her on the cheek and wished her goodnight. Still, she could hear the tone of hurt in his voice, the downturn of his mouth. It made her feel guilty, more guilty than she already did. 

It was not that she did not wish to be close to him - it was that she did not want him to see her as she was, to touch all these places that had changed. If there was a way she could get used to intimacy again, to grow used to the changes in her body without worrying what John thought of her, that would be ideal.

Suddenly, Margaret had an idea.

It was just past midday, lunchtime for the workers. The yard was quiet as most of the workers were eating in the dining hall. Margaret made her way to John’s office without any interruption. She knocked on the door.

“Come.” John’s voice came through the door. It was the tone he spoke to his workers in, sharp and businesslike.

Margaret pushed the door open, smiling at the sight of him surrounded by papers. He was just in his shirt and waistcoat, sleeves rolled up. There was a dark patch of ink on one of his cuffs, visible though he had tried to hide it. There was a smudge, too, just by his nose.

“Hello, husband.”

“Maggie.” He smiled broadly, getting up and walking over to her. He pushed the door closed and leaned down, kissing her on the lips. “Is everything alright?”

Margaret took her handkerchief from her sleeve, wiping the still damp ink away from his face as though he were a boy. He smiled, grabbing her wrist and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Yes, yes, all fine. I was wondering if I might ask a favour?” Margaret said, putting away her handkerchief and steadying her nerves.

He looked at her curiously; she did not usually come to him in the working day, and she had not asked him a favour for some time. He was right to be confused, for Margaret was fully aware that her behaviour was rather odd.

“Anything.”

“Do you have any offcuts of cloth that are not being used? I do not need much, just whatever is lying around wasted.” Margaret said, reaching up again to smooth his hair.

“Aye, of course.” John said, frowning at the unexpected question. “Why?”

“Might I have some? I wish to - I wish to make use of them.” 

“For what?” John pressed.

“Oh, just some - some sewing.” Margaret wondered if her cheeks were as red as they felt. “An experiment.”

John shrugged.

“I’ll bring you some over later. I’m sure they’re in a storeroom somewhere.” John said, his hands still around her waist.

She squirmed as his grip got tighter and he leaned down to kiss her neck. She breathed in sharply, feeling frozen beneath his touch. He instantly released her. He looked wounded, Margaret thought. Time was, a kiss to her neck would have lead to a rather heated display of affection. Now, it made her flinch.

This had to change, for she could not stand it any longer. She wanted to be touched, she wanted to touch him. It just needed to happen slowly, and at her control.

“Thank you. I should leave you to your work, I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“I’ll see you later. The children are alright?”

Margaret nodded.

“Penny is asleep, and Dixon has taken Arthur for a walk.”

A few hours later, John had delivered several strips of cloth to her. Margaret sat in her bedroom, for surely this project was far too scandalous to work on in the parlour. She looked at the various lengths of fabric John had given her, assessing each one individually.

The piece she held in her hand was long enough, certainly, and merely needed to be hemmed. For the other thing that she had in mind, she needed to stitch several offcuts together to increase both their thickness and length. She sighed, dropping the fabric down onto the bed in a huff.

This felt incredibly wrong. What would John think of her? To be planning such a thing - surely it was sinful. Swallowing heavily, she put those thoughts from her mind as she picked up the fabric and began sewing. When she was finished, she was left with two long strips, one a little wider than the other. Perfect.

* * *

That night, John returned home on time. Margaret felt her heart hammer in her chest all the way through dinner as she made pleasant small talk with her husband and his mother. It was indecent, what she was planning. Her nerve would have to hold fast to even suggest it.

When they retired for the night and Margaret had readied for bed, she took a deep breath.

“John.”

“Aye?” He asked as he unbuttoned his shirt.

“I - I need to talk to you about something.”

“Are you alright?” He asked, looking up in a panic. “You’re well?”

“Yes, yes. I wish to speak to you about something. It is rather delicate.” Margaret said.

He frowned, standing up straight and looking at her. She knew that look well; it was a glare, more than a look. His little flashes of temper were nothing new to her; they never lasted for long.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong. Except me, I suppose.” She inhaled deeply. “You know that we have yet to- to lie together since Penny was born.”

He looked relieved, tension dropping from his shoulders. He shook his head.

“Margaret, don’t worry yourself. You need to recover, I can wait for you.”

“I do worry myself. I want you, John. I want to be with you for I miss you very badly. I just - oh, please do not take this the wrong way. I do not want you to see me. I do not want you to touch me. Not when my body is not anything near what it was.”

“What?” His face dropped. “Maggie, you are beautiful. So beautiful.”

“I do not feel it.” Margaret felt her throat grow tight and painful. “I feel enormous and misshapen.”

“This is why you haven’t let me see you undress, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

He stroked down her face with his hands, so delicately Margaret thought she might give way to the tears that welled in her eyes.

“You are so beautiful, Mrs Thornton. So beautiful.” He whispered the words. “Nothing could ever change that. I love your body. Motherhood has only made you more beautiful, Margaret. Not less.”

“I feel uncomfortable.” She admitted. “Whenever you touch me, I want to run away. But I’m tired of wanting to run, John.”

“What can I do?” He took her hands in his. "Anything."

“You know that I asked you for scraps?”

“Yes..” He sounded curious.

Margaret felt her cheeks flame. Her chest prickled with the heat of the fierce blush that was spreading over her.

“I thought I might - bind your hands. And cover your eyes.”

He nearly choked.

“You wish to bind me while we make love?” He asked with bulging eyes - though a quick glance downwards confirmed to Margaret that his eyes were not the only thing bulging.

“I just thought - if I could get used to being with you again without worrying about your hands or your eyes..perhaps it would make it easier. I should not have asked you.”

“If that is what you need, then I shall do it. Though we could just as easily blow out the candles.”

Margaret looked to the grate, where a recently stoked fire glowed. It was March, but it was still cold enough to leave ice on the windows in the morning.

“The fire.” Margaret shook her head. “It is far too cold to do without one, and you shall see me in its light.”

“You know I like seeing you.” He said, kissing her forehead. “I would never think badly of you, love. Especially not after you have birthed me two perfect children. What kind of man would I be to judge your body?”

“A human one.” Margaret reasoned. “Men judge the female body constantly and you know that they do.”

“I don’t.”

“Be that as it may.” Margaret took a deep breath. “I want you, John. My body aches for you, yearns for you. My mind has not quite caught up.”

“And binding me will help?”

“I think so.”

He held out his hands, joining them both and presenting his wrists.

“Then do it.”

“You would really do that for me?” Margaret hesitated. “You are not angry at me?”

“I would do anything for you. Anything.”

“Undress and lie on the bed.” Margaret said, though she reached up on tip toes and kissed him. He kissed her back passionately, though his hands remained by his side. Her breath quickened as his lips moved against hers. She moved back, watching his face. His eyes were lidded, his mouth still half open. “Please.”

He did as she asked, kicking off his trousers and throwing his shirt somewhere behind him. He usually took more care in undressing, but his eagerness was plain to see. Indeed, when he was fully nude Margaret’s eyes were drawn down between his legs.

“What now?” He asked, lying down on the bed.

He looked unsure. Perhaps one could even describe him as vulnerable. It was strange to consider such a powerful man in so many ways could be called ‘vulnerable’. Yet there he was, lying propped up against their pillows and in the middle of the bed, looking unsure.

Margaret turned and locked the door; this would certainly be a most inopportune moment to be interrupted.

She walked over to her dressing table and took the two lengths of cotton she had sewn earlier. Running them through her fingers, she closed her eyes and tried to summon the courage to do this.

She walked slowly to the bed, her heart thudding. John merely looked at her, his face set tight. It was near impossible to tell what he was thinking. Still, his eyes held a glimmer of lust.

She knelt beside him on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. He sat up, kissing her firmly before lying back down and once again offering his wrists to her. Such an unquestioning display of trust, Margaret thought. A beautiful thing.

Hesitantly, she straightened the length of cotton in her hands. She gestured that John should raise his hands above his head. He obeyed her silently.

She gently wound the cloth around his wrists, her free hand stroking his knuckles softly. She tied a small knot in the cloth to make it hold. John pulled at the restraint to test it. 

“It is not too tight?”

“No.” He grunted. “No, not too tight.”

“Do you - do you like it?” Margaret asked, her voice suddenly husky at the sight before her.

“I don’t know.” John admitted. “I feel a little foolish. Exposed.”

“I find it..” Margaret cleared her throat. “I find it rather exciting.”

“Really?” John’s eyebrows quirked slightly, his lip twitching.

“Is that wrong? Oh, this is wrong, I should never have suggested it, I’m sorry!”

“No. No, this is what you need and I will give it to you. Just..just touch me, do something, Christ.” He gritted his teeth, the muscles of his arms straining as he lay bound before her.

“Can I cover your eyes?”

“Yes.”

He lifted his head, and she wound the makeshift blindfold she had fashioned around his head. His eyes were covered. This length of material was a little thicker than the other one, covering his eyebrows and almost down to the tip of his nose. She tied it tightly, so there was no gap beneath his cheeks that he might use to peep through.

“Can you see?”

“No.”

Margaret took a deep breath. She was safe, she could not be seen. Standing up, she removed her nightdress and lay beside him. Careful not to press her body against him, she ran a curious hand down the trail of hair that lead from his chest down. It was coarse yet somehow smooth at the same time. How long had it been since she had observed his body so closely? John shivered beneath her touch, goosebumps appearing everywhere her fingers had touched.

“Is this alright?” Margaret whispered.

“Yes.” John bit out.

The tendons of his neck were taut, his jaw clenched tightly.

Margaret leaned down and pressed her lips to his ear, gently taking his lobe between her teeth. He had always loved it when she kissed him there, the slightest brush of the sensitive skin always left him breathless. She wanted this to be pleasurable for him, not merely a chore he undertook for her sake.

His breath quickened. Margaret bit her lip; oh, this was rather wonderful. A strange sense of power swept over her at being able to elicit such a reaction from her husband. He usually spent most of the time readying her, touching her. He would certainly not need to tonight, for she was almost embarrassingly damp at the mere sight of her husband like this. She felt shame stab at her, but she pushed it away. No, no. What had he said all those years ago on their wedding night? No shame, no embarrassment, no apologies.

Her hand made its way from his chest, brushing lightly over his hip bones. His skin was smooth there, wonderfully smooth. She swirled her fingers once, twice, tiny circles that spread from his hip bones to the top of his thighs. It was lovely just to feel him.

She kept on like that, exploring his body with her hands, then her mouth. She ran her tongue along his neck, down to his collarbone, kissing down to his belly button. His stomach muscles clenched under her. Finally, his resolve broke.

“Touch me. Fuck, touch me please.” John begged, his nails digging into the palms of his hands. “Maggie, don’t be cruel. Please.”

Margaret inhaled sharply. Oh, that did something to her. She felt a throbbing between her legs that was almost painful in its intensity.

“Ask me again.” Margaret asked - no, not asked. Commanded.

He groaned, leaning up and blindly trying to find her mouth with his. He had no luck, for she had sat up and was observing his desperate struggle. It was not amusing at all. No, it drove her wild to see him so eager for her touch. To know that he wanted her..

“Please. Please darling, touch me please..”

She ran one finger, just one, up the length of his shaft. He groaned, his hips bucking up under her touch. She wrapped her hand more firmly around him, looking down the length of his body. His toes were curled, his legs tense.

Margaret watched as she continued to move her hand, entranced by this new sense of power. To give her husband such pleasure - she was not sure she had ever spent so much time watching him in this way.

There was so much to see. The rippling of his muscles as he squirmed beneath her. The rapid rise and fall of his chest, almost in time to the movement of her hand. She had never noticed such things before.

She could not wait any longer. Margaret shifted so she straddled him, one leg either side of his hips. John hissed as she did so, arching his hips again. Margaret gasped at the delicious friction.

“Please, Maggie. Please.”

She grasped him in her hand and steadied herself over him. Taking a deep breath, she took him inside her.

“Oh.” They breathed in unison as they joined.

Margaret took a moment to get used to the feeling. John whined, actually whined, as she stilled with him deep inside her.

“Patience, John.” She began to move, slowly. “I have missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, so much. Let me see you, Margaret, let me touch you. My beautiful Maggie, please.” John begged breathlessly.

“Not tonight. Give me this tonight.”

John did not protest any further. His lower lip was caught between his teeth, and Margaret knew if she could see his eyes they would be screwed tightly shut. He was beautiful, so beautiful.

She continued moving on him, closing her eyes and enjoying the sensations that washed over her. She was focused only on this, this feeling that was so glorious. She felt her climax building, and she was relieved that that had not changed. She would hate to lose that feeling, that feeling that only her husband gave her.

“I’m going to come.” John bit out. “Please, I’m sorry, come for me please, please, please.”

That was all that she needed. Margaret collapsed forwards, panting into his shoulder. She felt pleasure from her fingertips to the roots of her hair, boneless with satisfaction. She pressed her body against his, not caring anymore. This was her body, this was what he did to her. Let him have it, let him feel it.

John roared in her ear as he came, his legs wrapping around hers and pulling her tight to him.

They lay connected for some minutes. Margaret felt heavy, exhausted.

“Maggie.” John’s voice cut through her contented trance. “Maggie, untie me.”

“Oh!” Margaret prised herself off him, kneeling by his head.

She undid his wrists first, then he sat up and unbound his eyes himself. He stroked her cheek, leaning forward to kiss her. His eyes shone.

“You may look at me.” Margaret whispered. “I don’t mind.”

John's eyes remained on her face. Such love, she thought. She did not know love could be so visible - but there it was. It shone in his eyes, in the tiny smile on his lips. It made her heart swell; this generous, understanding man was more than she deserved.

“You’re perfect. I wish you could see what I see, my love.”

Margaret kissed him, once, twice, then peppered light kisses all over his face.

“Thank you for doing this for me. I greatly appreciate it.”

She got up and went to throw the lengths of cotton in the fire.

“No!” John barked.

“What?” Margaret asked in alarm, her arm still outstretched. “What is it?”

John cleared his throat, sitting up and covering himself as he avoided her gaze.

“Don’t destroy them. Perhaps..perhaps we could save them for another time?”


	8. Father to Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is in love and turns to his father for advice.

John was squinting down at some papers. It was too dark in here - or perhaps his eyes were just getting old. It had been his fiftieth birthday some months previously, and his eyes were not what they once were. He had evaded glasses for some time, but perhaps it was time to accept his fate.

A rap at the door of his office interrupted his thoughts of age and decay.

“Come.”

He leaned back in his chair, expecting to see one of his hands or some such. Instead it was his eldest child. He always forgot how tall Arthur was, but the lad filled every door frame he stood in and still had to bend at the knee.

“Father?” Arthur stepped in and closed the door behind him. “Are you busy?”

“I’m always busy.” John muttered, shuffling the papers that lay scattered on the desk and stacking them neatly.

“Can I talk to you?”

“Can’t it wait?”

“I need advice.”

John was surprised at that. It was not often his son came to him on personal matters.

“Advice?”

“About..” Arthur cleared his throat. “Women?”

John looked up in surprise. Arthur stood on the other side of the desk. John narrowed his eyes at his eldest son, looking him up and down. Beneath the mop of dark hair, the tips of Arthur’s ears were bright red, a trait inherited from his mother. He fiddled with his hands. He shifted his weight from one foot to another awkwardly.

“You’ve not got a girl in trouble?” John said sharply - perhaps a little too sharply.

Arthur balked at the accusation, shaking his head in despair as he tried to calm his father.

“No! No, nothing like that.” Arthur slumped down into the chair on the other side of his desk, running a hand through his hair. “Christ, Father. You think I’d do that?”

John sighed heavily with relief, and gestured for his son to continue you.

“Go on, out with it.”

“I’ve met the girl I wish to marry.” Arthur said in a rush, so quickly John had to pause to try and understand what his son had just said.

“Have you?” John asked, a little disbelieving. “When? In Spain?”

Arthur had spent several months in Cadiz earlier that year. He had expressed a wish to learn the language and understand a different culture. He had stayed with Fred and Dolores, and had come back freckled and speaking near perfect (as far as John could tell anyway) Spanish. Perhaps he had met a girl who had captured his heart.

“No, no, though Dolores’ niece did keep asking me to dance and wanted me to-“ Arthur stopped speaking, swallowing heavily and turning a shade of red John was not sure he’d seen before. “No, Father. I met her in London.”

“Who?”

“Miss Elizabeth Lennox.”

John frowned; he had certainly not expected that. Elizabeth Lennox was the eldest child of Henry and Anne. She was a few months younger than Arthur. The two of them had played together as children, John remembered. Henry and Anne had sent their children to boarding school, so Arthur had not seen her in some years.

“I thought she was in Switzerland.”

“She came back a few months ago now.” Arthur said. “I saw her when I stayed with Aunt Edith on my way back from Spain. It was at the party for Sholto’s birthday.”

“You spoke to her? Not merely gazed at her from across the room like a love struck puppy?”

“Yes I spoke to her Father.” Arthur retorted, rather snippily. “I’ve written to her every week.”

“Have you indeed? Have you spoken to her father?”

“Not yet.”

“Careful. Her father might not be pleased to hear you’ve been writing to her so regularly without his permission. There are ways about this, lad.”

“I want to ask him if I may court her when I travel to London next week. I was intending to stay a week or two anyway, but if that goes well - I will ask him if I may have her hand. Then ask her, of course.”

“You’re certain?”

“I’ve never been more certain of anything.” Arthur said, his smile broad. “I love her, Papa.”

Arthur had not called him Papa in some time, and just for a moment John was transported back to when his children were young. Time moved so very quickly; it felt like yesterday he held his first born in his arms, now here they were talking of marriage.

“What do you need to ask me?” John frowned. “Permission?”

Arthur shoved his hands in his pocket and looked down at his shoes.

“I do not know how to go about this. How did you court Mother? You two are so suited to one another. How did you know?”

“Er.” John rubbed at his neck. “To be honest with you son, I’m probably the worst person to ask for advice. I made a pig’s ear of the whole thing.”

Arthur frowned.

“But she married you!”

“Aye, two year after I first proposed. Turned me down flat the first time.”

So much time had passed, so much wonderfully blissful time, that John could talk of what had happened between them with some humour. At the time, however, it had hurt like no ache he had ever felt. He would not wish that for his son.

“I never knew that!” Arthur’s eyebrows were raised so high they were damn near in his hair. “I thought you were a love match.”

“We don’t talk about it much.” John shrugged. “It is the past. A long time ago now. And we were a love match, don’t go tellin’ your mother I said otherwise. It just - it just took a while”

“What did you do wrong?” Arthur asked. “Perhaps knowing your mistakes will prevent me from doing the same.”

John raised an eyebrow at that. He doubted very much that Miss Elizabeth Lennox was anything like Margaret Hale. For a start, finishing school would have polished any rough edges that Margaret may have had - her sharp tongue for one.

“Oh I don’t know. I was too forward, too indelicate.” John tried to remember precisely what had happened. It was over twenty years ago now, and time had made those memories rather blurred. “Too rough, I think. I barely knew your mother, and I asked her to marry me. She refused me, rather emphatically in fact.”

“Then what happened?”

“You’re not to tell your brother or sisters this story.” John said. “Your mother wouldn’t be pleased. I’m telling you so you might learn from my mistakes.”

“I won’t. I just can’t imagine you ever doing anything wrong.” Arthur said, full of blind admiration that only a son had for his father.

“Believe me, son. I made plenty of mistakes when I was younger. I lost the mill, have I ever told you that?”

“No. How?”

“A strike impacted our production for some weeks and put us well behind. It did not happen straight away, but it was a slow, painful decline. I couldn’t pay back loans, I couldn’t fill orders - it all just collapsed around me. Your mother, she knew a man named Mr Bell who owned the mill, and he gave her a great sum of money as an inheritance. She loaned it to me and that was when I realised she had come to care for me. We married not three months later.”

“That all sounds very business like.” Arthur frowned. “I should have known you didn’t have a flair for the romantic, Father.”

“Watch your cheek, you. I’ll have you know I’m plenty romantic, I just don’t want to discuss that with my son.”

“Nor do I wish to hear it.” Arthur shuddered dramatically. “So how did you change her mind?”

“I didn’t. After Mr Hale - I mean your grandfather - died, your mother went to London to live with your Aunt Edith and her mother, your late Aunt Shaw. I didn’t hear from her for months. I thought of her all the time. We had never been great friends, and we had more than our share of arguments - but I loved her all the same.”

“Then how did she come back to you?” Arthur asked with all the eagerness of a child listening to a fairytale, though he knew full well how the story ended. Indeed, he would not be sitting there if there was no happy ending.

“We met by chance on passing trains - me going north, her south on her way back to London after a visit to Milton. She came back on the northbound train with me and that was that.”

“Just like that? She simply swapped trains and went home with you? Why was she in Milton? Who was she with on the train going south? Did they not have something to say about her sudden diversion?” Arthur asked, bombarding him with questions John did not particularly want to answer.

John was sure Margaret would be furious for telling their son the story of how she had abandoned Henry Lennox, the man Arthur would hopefully call father-in-law, to run away to Milton with a penniless mill owner.

“Ah, don’t worry about that.” John said, scratching at his neck. “The point is, I cared for your mother very much. I just went about it in the wrong way. You must listen to Miss Lennox, Arthur. Try and understand her.”

“I do. I read every letter she sends me three times at least.”

Such boyish enthusiasm. Marriage would take more than that. Marriage took patience, understanding - but love was a good place to start.

“Does she care for you?”

“I think so.” Arthur chewed his lip. “I hope so. God, I hope so.”

“Tell me about her.”

Arthur stopped gnawing at his lip and looked at him. His eyes narrowed with suspicion; John was not prone to sentimental conversations with his children.

“Really?”

“Would you rather talk to your mother? She’s better at all this than I am.”

“Don’t tell Mama!” Arthur said. “Not until I know more. I wanted to talk to you as a man. I - I don’t know how to describe her. She is beautiful, but she’s more than that. She makes me laugh. She has this side to her that I did not expect - she is well read, and rather argumentative if truth be told.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve been having a heated discussion about, oh so many different things.” Arthur shrugged. “She pretends she is the perfect lady to others but underneath - underneath she is all fire.”

“Tread careful, son. Don’t get burned.”

“I love her, Father.”

“I can tell. Just go slow, son. And speak to her father before it gets any further.”

“How did you ask Grandfather?”

John cringed.

“I didn’t. I told you, I made a pig’s ear of the whole thing. But then again, your mother wasn’t one for tradition. I think if I’d have asked her father before her, things would have been even worse for me.”

“It is strange, Papa.” Arthur said, leaning back in his chair. “But I’ve never imagined your life before I was born. I have learnt new things about you today.”

“I wasn’t always just a father, you know. I’m a man too.”

* * *

Later that day, John looked over at his wife as he unbuttoned his shirt and readied for sleep. She was reading in bed, her glasses perched low on her nose. She looked lovely like that, all soft and sleepy.

“Arthur’s in love.” John said without meaning to.

“Oh, I know.” Margaret turned the page without looking up. “Elizabeth Lennox.”

“How do you know? He said he hadn’t told you.”

Margaret laughed, still not looking up. She shook her head, a wide smile on her face.

“He’s been talking of her incessantly for weeks. I doubt he even realises that he’s doing it. And the letters that arrive for him make him smile like a little boy.” Margaret chuckled, setting her book down and removing her glasses.

“I didn’t notice any of that.”

“No dear, you wouldn’t. He seems happy, I’m glad of it.” Margaret smiled. “Elizabeth is a sweet girl, I saw her when I was last in London. Though I’m afraid finishing school has made her rather meek and proper. A shame.”

Though she was a well brought up woman with a decent education in manners and decorum, Margaret had little patience for those women who had no spark about them. She found it boring, he knew. She valued personality, intelligence. He did not blame her, for he found it all rather false as well.

“I hope he’s not got ideas about moving to London. I need him here. I never thought I’d say this but he’s a natural talent for accounts, an excellent eye.”

Margaret shook her head, sighing as she slithered down into bed and rested her head on the pillow. She patted his pillow next to her, calling him to bed.

“John, you must let him make his own way in the world. If he wants to go to London, we will wish him well.”

“I suppose the others will all be marrying soon enough.”

Margaret laughed.

“Darling, the twins are only twelve and Penny doesn’t take her nose out of a book long enough to even notice boys. Things are not so bad, we still have some chicks in our nest.”

“I still think of him as a little boy.” John admitted, pulling back the covers and getting into bed. “Not a grown man of nearly nineteen. I suppose it is not so young. I was, what, thirty one when we married?”

Margaret nodded, tracing the line of his jaw and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Practically an old man in comparison. If he has found the right person then there will be no changing his mind.” Margaret said. “I just hope she doesn’t hurt him.”

“Aye.” John said. “I wouldn’t wish that on him.”

He gave a look to Margaret, who frowned.

“Don’t bring all that up again!” Margaret protested. “That was almost twenty five years ago!”

“A man doesn’t forget heartbreak, Margaret.” John teased, pressing his hand over his chest like a man wounded.

“Oh, hush!” Margaret slapped his shoulder as he stole a kiss from her. “I’d say your poor little heart is well mended now, husband.”

“Just about.”


	9. An Education of Sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yes, except you did not have endless meetings to attend on our honeymoon.” She pointed out, for their schedule whilst in London was indeed full of business appointments.
> 
> “On the contrary, wife. I believe I attended several meetings with you. In bed, on the floor, against that tree..” He spoke directly into her ear, almost a whisper; yet the tone of his voice was so dark she felt her toes curl in her shoes.
> 
> “John!”
> 
> “You remember the night I made you come five times?” He whispered in her ear.
> 
> Oh.
> 
> This is the story of that night during their honeymoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to twinpines for the request. 
> 
> Please note this chapter contains strong sexual scenes and language

On the third day of their honeymoon, Margaret felt quite blissfully relaxed. Away from the noise and the smoke of Milton (and the ever watchful eye of her mother-in-law), she and John had had a real chance to get to know each other properly. She had discovered he did not care for fish, moved his lips while he read the paper each morning and was meticulous in folding his clothes each night. They were only little things, but she felt like she was gaining a more complete picture of this man she had come to love so greatly.

It was the evening, and they were walking back to their room along the winding hotel corridors. Maids scuttled around turning rooms down for the night, and Margaret caught more than a few knowing glances as they walked past. She felt her cheeks flame red, though John did not even seem to notice.

“I am sure that maid was laughing at us!” Margaret said as they almost fell into their hotel room. “Oh, they must all think us terrible beasts John, for we have hardly left our room!”

“We are on our honeymoon.” He said, kicking the door shut as he dove forward and began kissing her neck. “And I’ll make the most of it.”

She laughed, her fingers buried in his hair to pull him closer. She loved the feel of his hair between her fingers, and in turn she had discovered he loved the feel of her fingers on his scalp. She had not been expecting him to be such a tactile man, nor had she thought herself a tactile woman, yet they could not keep their hands off one another.

“I think you have done a rather good job of that so far. Aren’t you tired of me yet?”

“Never.” He turned her around so she faced him. “I will never tire of you Margaret. Never.”

“Nor I of you. I swear it.” She reached up to caress his cheek, and he leaned into her touch with a small smile. He seemed so relaxed here, so removed from the man he was in Milton. She enjoyed seeing this new side to her husband, though she would welcome the return of the old John when normal life resumed.

Tugging her wrist, he pulled her closer. Leaning down, for he was a great deal taller than she, he pressed his mouth to hers. He kissed her hungrily, his arms at her waist tugging her close. She would certainly never tire of his kisses, for it felt like each kiss meant something new. There were the kisses that said I love you, I want you. The kisses that were quick, a goodbye, a hello. The kisses that were so intense in their passion that she could feel it in her very bones.

This particular kiss was definitely in her bones.

It was so new to her, this feeling of desire. Having this time alone with John had only intensified it as they grew used to one another. She had come to realise that for her whole life, she had been a stranger to her own body. It was something of a shock to discover just how wonderful she was capable of feeling - how John made her feel. Perhaps it was wrong, for the little she had heard of the marriage bed usually spoke of pain and duty. She felt no duty; she was a most willing participant.

John’s hands were at the buttons of the front of her dress, working at them with clumsy, eager fingers. In turn, she tugged at his cravat blindly, too absorbed by his kisses to break away. She never wanted this to end, never wanted to lose this new and most enchanting feeling that shot from her lips all the way to her toes. It was as though she were on fire, hot and excited and confused all at once.

Each time they lay together, they grew a little bolder. Touched one another a little less hesitantly, moaned a little louder. It was most promising indeed. Two days before, he had made her feel the most wonderful sensation using only his hand. Since then, pleasure had come more easily to her - and John had used his hands again. Margaret was certain he had been watching her reactions most carefully indeed, for he seemed to remember precisely what spot on her body elicited the best reaction.

She did not know his body nearly as well as he was coming to know hers. It was frustrating, but she supposed time and patience would solve that particular problem. It was not that he did not wish to be touched, more that once he started touching her she rather lost all of her own faculties.

He kissed her softly, pulling back and gently turning her around. She shrugged out of the sleeves, pulling the dress over her head with John’s help. His fingers were at the laces of her corset, his lips at the nape of her neck. She shuddered, for that particular spot made goosebumps rise all over her body. She sighed with pleasure as she sagged against him. He nudged her forward, continuing his ministrations to free her from her clothes.

The corset was discarded on the floor, and Margaret pulled at her petticoats in a terrible hurry. She heard a ripping sound, but that could be dealt with in the morning. John was shedding his own clothes now, tearing at his waistcoat as he watched her with eager eyes. Though his clothes were considerably less complex than her own, he seemed to be struggling.

Bare at last, chemise pooled around her ankles along with her shoes and stockings, Margaret stepped forward and pushed his hands away. She undid each button with great care, staring at her fingers and ignoring the burning gaze she could feel on her.

Should she feel ashamed to be bare before her husband with no shield of darkness nor the covers of the bed? Perhaps it was a little brazen, but she enjoyed John’s eyes on her. This was still new, she was still unsure but one thing that she was certain of is that she greatly valued her husband’s desire. She would not say so out loud, for it felt wrong and wanton. But here, on their honeymoon, she would allow herself this vice.

John kicked off his shoes, his hands fumbling at the waistband of his trousers. He was too focused on her, which made his actions rather slow and she almost groaned with impatience. When he had finally finished, pushing them down over his hips until only his shirt remained, he eyed her eagerly. He pulled the shirt over his head, not bothering with the buttons. Margaret looked down briefly, and felt her cheeks heat as she saw the undeniable evidence of his desire for her.

He held out his hand with a small smile, still hesitant even after all they had done together. She took it, lacing her fingers through his and allowing him to lead her to their bed. Margaret felt a little guilty about how much time they had spent in this bed, lost in one another. It was hard to feel too guilty, though.

“I missed you.” Margaret said, kissing his cheek.

“I missed you. It feels like days.” John muttered, pulling at the pins that kept her hair up.

She pushed his hands away; he was rather too frantic at removing her pins and her scalp had begun to hurt as he tugged a little too vigorously. She took over his work as he sat on the bed before her. She had taken to styling her hair herself, and it was rather simple to undo, but it still took a little longer than either if them wanted it to. John's eager eyes were a testament to that.

“It has been four hours.” Margaret laughed, shaking her head so her hair fell free. “We are a pair, John. We’ve not spent more than a few moments apart for days, how can we miss one another? We were together for the entire evening.”

“I’d not leave this bed if you hadn’t made me.” He held his hand out once more and tugged her down so she tumbled onto the mattress.

She laughed as he kissed her, parting her legs so he could lie on top of her. She gasped as she felt him hard against her thigh, her breath quickening. He had taken her that morning, in a coupling so sweet it made her ache to think of it. He touched her with such care, such consideration. It meant a great deal to her to be treated so tenderly.

“May I - are you ready?”

In truth, and she would not say it out loud for it was surely shameful, she had thought of little else but her husband between her thighs for the entire evening and was more than ready. She ached for him.

"Yes." She nodded, threading her hands through his hair and tugging him down to meet her lips.

He pushed into her as they kissed, the sensations so overwhelming that she could have wept with it. The intimacy they shared, this language they had created between their bodies in such a short time was a glorious thing, but she would be lying if she claimed to have a true understanding of this side of herself.

He made love to her slowly, his mouth against hers as he could not stop kissing her. She too felt like if he broke away from her now, she would drown. As he moved within her, he groaned softly.

"Amazing." He moaned against her. "You feel so damned good."

Margaret did not know what to say.

"Thank you."

"Does that feel alright?" His voice was breathless now, his hips moving against hers with increased vigour. "I'm not hurting you?"

"No. No not at all." Margaret brushed his hair from his eyes, her fingertips ghosting down his face until they caressed his jaw. "Indeed, I am most well."

Each time he moved, something seemed to build within her, a pleasure that made her toes curl and her muscles tremble. After several minutes had passed, John had grown so desperate that he almost slammed into her, his hand gripping the back of her knee and drawing it up. It was then, with that slightest change of angle, that Margaret cried out as her body tightened and the pleasure crashed over her most unexpectedly.

"Fuck, oh my God, that feels-" John stuttered, his hips pushing hard against hers as he groaned, his fingers gripping the carved wooden bedhead above then as he almost sobbed into her shoulder with his own release.

Margaret stroked at his cheeks, his forehead, anywhere she could reach. She felt as though she were flying, her chest rising against his as she tried to catch her breath. He rolled off her as soon as he had regained his senses, mumbling apologies and pulling her close to him. He missed the top of her head, his damp skin cool against her own.

They lay in contented silence. Margaret felt rather strange, as though she would burst out giggling at any moment. The muscles in her thighs twitched as though she were about to run, her body almost felt as if it were humming. It was most peculiar indeed.

It was dark in the room, save for an eerie silver glow caused by the full moon in the sky. It was summer so a fire was not needed, and a pleasant sea breeze blew in from an open window. Outside, one could hear only the gentle crashing of the waves to shore. Margaret felt a gear sense of peace, but there was something else in the back of her mind.

She had questions that had yet to be answered. Many questions, actually. Each time they lay together as man and wife, there was something new to try and understand,some new feeling that she could not put a name to. She did not like it; she felt uneducated and ignorant, a feeling she did not relish at all.

“John.” Margaret nudged at his shoulder with her nose. “There’s something I’ve been wondering. Might I ask you something?”

“Mmm?”

“Do you remember our wedding night-“

“I think I have some memory of it, aye.” John said, his devilish smile visible even in the dim light.

“Let me finish! Do you remember that you told me you had read books?” Margaret asked. “You told me that is how you knew a little of what to do. You remember?”

John looked at her with a confused frown. She ran her finger over the lines in his forehead, earning the slightest ghost of a smile from her husband.

“Mmm.”

“Is that how you know how to - to touch me with your hand?” Margaret asked, her cheeks flushing red.

She heard him chuckle, feeling the deep rumble as she lay on his chest. She smiled, snuggling closer to him and holding him tighter.

“Yes.” He shifted slightly. “And I listen. Men who’ve had a few brandies have loose tongues, the things they have say are both enlightening and revolting.”

“What do they talk about?” Margaret asked curiously.

Margaret knew that married men often took mistresses, as well as having relations with women before marriage. She could understand a little of why now that she had experienced it herself; it did feel wonderful, but part of the appeal to her was the closeness she shared with her husband. She could not imagine chasing it as desperately as some men seemed to. Indeed, men had ruined their reputations for the sake of their own lust, she had heard of it many times. She wanted to know why - what did men talk about, what did they do. She was curious about it, in a way that was certainly not ladylike.

“Margaret.” John stroked at her hair. “Trust me, you are too fine a lady to hear such things. The things they say, they’re - well, they’re indecent. Truly vulgar.”

“Oh, how boring.” Margaret groaned into his chest. “Surely it would not hurt now. I am hardly a blushing virgin.”

“Not after what we’ve been doing for the last three weeks.” John teased, kissing her forehead.

“Well, quite.” Margaret agreed, though her cheeks burned at the thought of it. “So tell me!”

John shook his head.

“In regards to the books - a few years ago I caught Fanny trying to sneak some awful smutty penny novels into the house.”

“You caught her?” Margaret asked, wide eyed. “How?”

“Have you met my sister? She is hardly subtle. She was as red as a strawberry and I asked her what she was up to.”

“What did you do then?!”

“I took them off her, of course. She was barely fourteen.”

“And then read them yourself?! Why, John, that is hardly fair.”

“I didn’t intend to.” John said, his hand trailing the length of her spine. “I put them in my room where I knew she’d not dare go. She’d really be in trouble then. One night I was tempted and I had a look.”

“Were they interesting?”

“Poorly written filth.” John muttered. “I still don’t know where she got hold of them.”

“But they taught you something?” Margaret asked with interest. "Educated you a little?"

“I suppose. There was a page in one where the character - Margaret, we shouldn’t be discussing this.”

“I shall not faint, John. I think I am getting rather more well acquainted with the physical side of life. I wish to know more. You have no idea how frustrating it is to be told nothing of what goes on between a man and a woman, only that it is wrong.”

“I understand. There are still things I do not understand myself."

“Might I ask a question?”

“Anything.”

“When you read the book - did you imagine what it would be like to touch a woman in that way? For even though you were nervous on our wedding night, you knew what to do. Indeed, you have touched me in ways I have never imagined, made me feel things that I could not dream.”

Margaret felt the muscles of his torso tense under her palm, like a nervous horse about to bolt.

“Perhaps. It doesn’t matter.”

“I will not judge you. Tell me, for I wish to know.” Margaret paused, feeling embarrassment creep in. “Did you touch yourself as I have touched you?”

The words escaped before she could snatch them back, and she clapped a hand over her mouth as if that would help keep them contained. It was too late, for John looked at her with a rather stunned expression.

“Margaret!”

“I thought you said we were to be open in our marriage bed!”

“It is private.” John said. “I am not used to speaking of such things.”

“Then I am sorry for intruding. Tell me what else was in the book. Please.”

“It was years ago. I don’t remember.”

“Clearly you do.” Margaret rolled onto her front, propping her face up on her elbows and staring at him through narrowed eyes. “You’re keeping secrets, Mr Thornton.”

He stared at her, and for a terrible moment Margaret was worried she had gone too far. Men were entitled to their privacy. She ought not make demands of him. He did not have to hand over all of his secrets to her.

“Fine. Yes I touched myself.” He bit out, his voice husky as he glared at her. “Happy?”

Margaret felt a jolt of pleasure between her legs, so sharp that she gasped. John raised an eyebrow and she covered her face with her hands.

“I - I would like to see that.” She said, muffled behind her palms. “Is that wrong?”

“You want to watch me - do that?”

“Is there a name for it?” Margaret asked, her hands lowering from her face. She kept one in her face, propping herself up on her elbow, while the other rested in the firm plain of his thigh. “When you do that?”

“A few, all vulgar. Touching yourself is the most polite.” He shifted. “It is not usual to discuss it with other people. I do not do it often.”

“I feel ignorant, John. I do not know the names for so many of the things that take place between us.”

“Like what?” John asked, brushing the tendrils of hair from her shoulder and kissing her there.

Margaret frowned, trying to think of an example that did not sound ridiculous.

“When you - when you -” She groaned in frustration. “When you, ah, finish when we make love. What is that called?”

There was silence for a few moments. Margaret feared she had asked too much.

“I believe the proper scientific term is ejaculation.” John said at last.

“And the improper term?”

John hesitated again. Margaret did not wish to make him uncomfortable with this conversation, yet she knew that his knowledge was far greater than hers. She merely wanted an education in the matter. Asking anyone else would be out of the question, and she felt these last few days had instilled in her the confidence to finally ask.

“Coming.” He said finally.

“Coming.” Margaret echoed. “Coming. And the name of the substance?”

“Margaret!” John groaned, sounding tortured.

“John, it is only us. Please, share your knowledge.”

“I was hardly taught it at school.”

“But you know, don’t you?”

Another awkward silence. Margaret was starting to regret starting this conversation about something so personal. She felt shame burn in her chest, panic rising that she would offend him beyond repair.

“Aye, I know. Seed, come, spend - there are all sorts of names for it.”

Margaret thought on that for a moment; she recognised one or two of the terms as being used in the bible. Her father had never encouraged her to study those passages in any great detail, but she remembered them all the same.

“And what do you think of it as?” She asked finally.

“Come.” John said. “It is what I heard at school and I have used the term since then.”

Margaret decided not to press him on what else he learned at school, preferring instead to ask more relevant questions.

“And..” Margaret paused, trying to find the right words. “When I - when you make me feel that intense pleasure, what would that be called?”

“I suppose coming, also? I don’t know.” John said. "it is not often spoken about - and if it is, it is treated as a myth, much like a dragon or a unicorn."

"Yet you knew it was possible."

"I did not know for sure, I just wish for you to enjoy the act. I combined what I had heard and what I had read. . I would do anything for you."

“Hmm.” Margaret moved so her head was on his chest. Her muscles were a little tight, and she stretched her arms above her head. John caught her arm as she put it back down, taking her left hand and toying with the golden band of her wedding ring.

“You are asking me all these questions as easily as enquiring which letter comes next in the alphabet.” John teased, pressing a kiss to her ring finger and putting her hand down on the bed. “When did you get so bold?”

“I want to be on an equal footing with you, John. You take such splendid care of me but it is a little alarming not knowing what to do or what to say. I am learning, I think, but surely it cannot hurt to expand my vocabulary?”

“You’re not learning French, Margaret.”

“Non, Monsieur.” She laughed, rolling onto her back. “But it is still a new language. My body, for example. My whole life I have been taught it is a shameful thing to be hidden away. How can what you make me feel be shameful?”

“It isn’t.”

“Precisely. More words then, Sir. What do you call these?” Margaret asked, her hands at her breasts.

John’s eyes narrowed as he watched her, and she found that she greatly enjoyed his eyes upon her in this way. It was shameless, the way she touched her own body in front of him. She would surely feel mortified in the morning, but for now the cloud of lust that enveloped her obscured her better judgement.

“You know they are called breasts. I know you know that.”

“Are there any more words?” Margaret asked, feeling rather devilish. Perhaps she was teasing him. She rather liked that. In the darkness and the lateness of the hour, she felt bold. In all honesty, she felt as though there were dozens of bees beneath her skin and she could not sit still, or like she might collapse with giggles at any moment. It was strange how she felt after they had made love.

“Tits.” His eyes were transfixed on her fingers as she swirled them over the rise of her - tits, she thought with a grin. “Margaret, I can’t concentrate when you do that.”

“Continue, please.” Her hand edged downwards, brushing over the curls that lay between her legs. John groaned. “Here? What is this called?"

“Heaven.”

He rolled towards her, pressing his body to hers as he lay sprawled half on top of her. Her hands were trapped between them, but she was powerless to protest as his mouth found hers. She could feel him, hard and ready against her thigh. She pulled away and looked down, staring at the appendage.

“I have another question.”

“Now?” He asked, a little choked.

“What - what is yours called?” Margaret asked, wrapping her fist around the base as he had shown her before.

“Penis - cock. Call it my cock.” He bit out, gasping as she slowly moved her hand. His hips jerked up and his head fell back. “Oh, Christ, yes.”

“Cock.” Margaret repeated in a barely audible whisper. “I have another question.”

“Mmm?” John asked, kissing his way from her neck to her collarbones as her hand continued to move on him.

“When it is not - needed, I suppose, it is smaller?” Margaret asked, staring down at him. He nodded. She ran a finger across the glistening tip of him curiously and he whimpered.

“Do that again, just like that, please.”

She did as she had been bid, tracing her finger gently along the tip and down the length of him. The sounds he made created an embarrassing dampness between her legs. She found it all so very hard to understand, the physical reactions lust created confusing her greatly. It was strangely comforting, too, that her body knew what to do even if her mind did not.

“And are all cocks the same?” She asked curiously, her fingers feathering over his hip bones now.

His hips snapped upwards, seemingly involuntarily for he groaned at her touch, his muscles almost spasming under her fingertips. That excited her too, that she could reduce him to such a state with only a brush of her fingers.

“I’ve not seen any besides mine.” He grunted, his finger pinching her nipple. “Margaret, enough questions, stop torturing me.”

“I was just wondering if they are all as large as yours.”

John looked up at her, and she realised his mouth was poised at her breast. She raised her eyebrows questioningly, watching in wonder as he drew it into his mouth and sucked hard. Her back arched as his teeth grazed her sensitive flesh. John’s hand rested on her belly, pushing her down slightly and steadying her.

He paid equal attention to the other side, and Margaret groaned. She covered her mouth, not wanting to make too much noise. Their joinings so far had been passionate, yes, but she had felt rather self conscious of the noises that seemed to burst out of her. She already seemed rather wanton and uncouth on this night, asking such improper questions. She did not want him to think badly of her.

“Don’t do that.” His voice was thick, and he pulled at her wrist so her hand no longer covered her lips.

“What?”

“Cover your mouth. Your noises - I want them.” He kissed his way back to her mouth. “I’ve earned them. They’re mine.”

Her breath caught as another throb of pleasure near overwhelmed her. These dark words, lustful and sinful, excited her in a way she had never imagined she could feel. Her toes curled, her fingers gripped the sheets as his hand cupped her between her legs.

“What is it called?” She asked. “I will not ask anything else, but what is that called? It is mine and I do not know.”

“I do not know the correct name.” He murmured, sounding rather embarrassed. “Only the coarse ones.”

“Tell me.”

“Cunt. Cunny. Sex.” He bit out each word as he stroked at her, slipping a finger inside her. “They are vulgar words. There is nothing vulgar about this.”

“John I have one last question.”

“Go on.”

“Is it wrong to engage in acts that cannot lead to children?” Margaret hesitated, for she knew the question made her sound most wanton indeed.

“In what way?”

“I think..” Margaret swallowed, willing herself to have the courage for this. “I am a little sore.”

His hand stopped immediately, withdrawing his finger from her and looking at her in concern.

“I’ve hurt you?”

“No! We have just lain together so often in these past few days, I am a little sensitive. But your finger, that feels lovely. Would it be wrong to - to come merely for the sake of pleasure?” She asked, experimenting with the new term. After all, if she were to understand the act properly, the proper language ought to be used.

John groaned.

“This is just for us, Margaret. Our marriage bed is our business and we decide what’s right or wrong. I want to make you feel pleasure. Whatever you want, I will do it.”

“I want to continue to touch you with my hand. Until you..” She exhaled. “Until you come.”

“Christ.” John exhaled sharply. “Might I do the same to you?”

“At the same time?” Margaret asked.

“If you wish it.”

“I think I do.”

His free hand brushed her cheek, his eyes gazing into hers with so much tenderness it made her breathless. He kissed her, softly and so sweetly. He resumed what he had been doing, his movements gentle yet wonderful. In turn, she hesitantly wrapped her hand around him once more. His free hand lowered and he pressed the top of her - sex, she decided. That is what she would call it. She knew there was a strange little bump there, and he pressed on it lightly.

“Oh!”

Her entire body stiffened at the touch, her thighs going taut as her whole body tightened. John winced, for the hand wrapped around him must have tightened too. She exhaled, trying to relax. That sensation was - it was unbelievable, indescribable. That such a simple touch might elicit such a reaction astounded her.

“There?” John asked needlessly, for surely he could not misunderstand the reaction he had just pulled from her.

“Yes, yes!” She said almost in a panic - for that spot combined with his finger inside her seemed to ignite a most wonderful feeling she had never felt before, even when John had touched her like this a few days previously. “Please, there.”

She closed her eyes, willing her heartbeat to steady as he continued to touch her. She touched him also, though she was unsure how she could possibly make him feel as wonderful as he did her. He seemed so sure in what he was doing, while she felt clumsy and inexperienced.

As his ministrations continued, the pleasure overwhelmed her. It made her whole body feel tight and on edge, her muscles tense as his fingers moved at an increased pace. She released him, her back arching as she felt the pleasure hit her far more sharply than she had ever felt before. She could not help the sounds that escaped her mouth, though she would surely be mortified if anyone heard her.

The pleasure began to fade, but John’s hand did not stop. She wanted to ask what he was doing, but she could not force her mouth to form the words. She was an incoherent babbling mess as he continued to touch her. Surely her pleasure was over now?

“Touch me.” He panted, taking her hand and guiding it to him. “Please, please.”

Margaret did as he asked, though she could not focus at all. Her hand seemed to move of its own accord and he gasped, but first she felt that glorious peak of pleasure slam into her again. She near sobbed with it, for it seemed to flow throughout her whole body. She was vaguely aware of John kissing her neck, groaning as he joined her in this bliss.

They did not speak for a long time, and as the shield of arousal faded away Margaret began to feel mortification creep in. He had cleaned them both wordlessly, and she felt a fierce blush all over her body as shame consumed her once more.

“John?” She said, so quietly it was more of a whisper than an actual word.

“Mmm?”

“You don’t - you don’t think badly of me do you? I should hate to disappoint you.”

“You make me come so hard I damned near forgot my own name and you’re worried I am disappointed?” He asked in a thick, sleep laced voice. “Go to sleep Margaret.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight love.” He nuzzled into her hair, and Margaret relished the closeness.

Their love seemed to soften him, especially as he neared sleep each night. She had not expected John to be as - well, cuddly as he was, but she welcomed the warmth of his body against hers. The closeness shared during marriage took some time to adjust to, but in just three short weeks, she had surely become addicted to the feel of her husband’s body against hers.

* * *

Margaret woke up some time later. It was not yet morning or even dawn, for the room was still bathed in moonlight. Margaret turned, reaching out for John. She frowned as her hand hit only the cool sheets instead of her husband's warm body. She sat up in alarm, sleep clouding her reason. He could not have gone far.

Indeed he had not. He stood by the large window, a shadowy figure that would have scared the wits out of her if she had not been looking for him. He gazed out of the window. He was no longer bare as she was, for they had fallen asleep without dressing. He had found his nightshirt

"John?"

The sound of her voice startled him, for she saw his shoulders jolt a little.

"Did I wake you?"

"No. I just wondered where you were. Are you alright?"

"Aye. I couldn't sleep is all. Margaret, look at this."

Margaret groped under her pillow for her nightgown, swinging her legs out of bed and pulling the garment on. She felt as though she were in a dream, her body aching a little with exertion and in protest against disturbed sleep.

"What?"

"Look at that. The moon on the water."

The moon was high in the sky, casting its reflection on the calm surface of the sea. Coupled with the sound of gently rolling waves, it felt like magic. It was so peaceful, Margaret was not sure she had ever seen such a single sight that had inspired such awe within her. She did not speak, merely reaching for John's hand in the darkness and holding it tightly.

"I can't remember ever seeing so many stars." John said. "I've certainly never seen such a clear sky."

It was true that the sky over Milton was clouded by smoke even at night, and stars were hard to come by. She knew John had not spent much time outside of cities and industrial towns in his life, so this sight would indeed be alien to him.

"When I was a girl, I would sometimes stay up just to watch the stars come out. It was easy in winter, of course, but my favourite was staying up until near midnight in the summer and hoping I was not caught. I had not realised how much I missed the stars. I used to imagine each one was a mirror, glinting down at me. Or a jewel."

"You are happy in Milton? I cannot give you stars." John said, hesitance ringing his voice.

Surely he could not doubt her happiness and contentment after all they had shared? Hand still entwined in his, Margaret leaned her head against his shoulder , gazing up at the vast expanse of sky above them.

"You have given me so much, my love. And we have the stars now. That is enough."

* * *

“What are you thinking about, Maggie? You’re miles away.”

Margaret looked up, snapping out of her daydream. John was half undressed, folding his shirt neatly as he did every night. Though ten years had passed now, his body was as lithe and attractive to her as ever. He has thickened a little, but he had not grown portly like other men as they entered their forties. That, she supposed, could be credited to the fact he never sat still and was often so busy he forgot to eat.

“Oh, I was thinking about that night in Bournemouth you mentioned on the train.”

John’s eyes narrowed predatorily as he stalked towards her. The look on his face made her flush, for there was no mistaking what he desired.

“Were you now?”

“You were wrong.” Margaret said, holding out her hands and allowing him to help her out of the chair.

“About what, wife?”

“It wasn’t five times.” Margaret looped her arms around his neck as his hands gripped at her waist. “It was three.”

“Was it indeed?” John kissed her neck, nipping at the sensitive flesh just below her ear. “Allow me to settle the balance then. I was only an amateur then, after all.”


	10. A Different Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Margaret are in London and pay a social call to Aunt Shaw. After dinner, Henry antagonises John and causes John to question himself. Margaret comforts him.
> 
> Set about ten years into their marriage so the children are about eight, five and three-ish.

John hated London. He hated the unfamiliar streets, he hated the awkward social occasions he was forced to attend by his wife's family. Most of all, he hated Henry Lennox.

It was ridiculous, really. John had been married to Margaret for almost ten years. They had four children together and a very happy marriage indeed. Yet the merest sight of Henry Lennox's face was enough to make him irritated. There was something so - so smug about him. Lennox understood the life Margaret was born to live better than John ever could. She had never been meant for Milton; John had stolen her away on that northbound train.

"How are the children?" Lennox asked him with a tight smile as he took a sip of brandy.

"Fine. Yours?"

"They are well, I believe. I have been rather busy. "

The Lennox's had two daughters, Elizabeth and Grace, around the same age as Arthur and Penelope. John could not imagine not even knowing first hand if his children were well. It seemed absurd a man could be so ignorant to his own offspring. The Lennox girls would surely be sent away for an education with some family member or other as Margaret had been. John thought of Penelope, at home in Milton and surely missing her Papa reading the usual bedtime story.

That thought made him resent London even more.

"I am taking Anne away soon. She does get so cast down by the winter, though it is vastly improved from what she was once used to in Milton of course. Margaret never did like the cold, I am surprised she can bear it."

John muttered an agreement, though he resented the liberties Lennox always took with her. He presumed to know Margaret so well, though it had now been many years since they had been close. He did not know Margaret at all now, though he still stuck his claws into her whenever he had a chance.

It was true though; Margaret did hate the winter. The cold in the North was bitter and all consuming, and she often climbed into their bed each night freezing cold. The damp aggravated his chest and he kept her awake with his coughing. Though she claimed not to mind, she looked exhausted some days. Between a lack of sleep and busy lives, he had not seen much of his wife the past few months.

The children took up a great deal of her time, for they employed no governess. They had help, of course, but Margaret divided her time between educating her own children and the poor children who attended her school. She ran herself ragged for the sake of others, and John could not help but feel she deserved a gentler life. A life he could not give her.

This life. A life of gentility and manners and ease.

"We are going to the country for a few weeks. A friend has an estate and is leaving for the continent. I thought a change of scenery might do her good." Henry continued. "I believe the country air can cure many ailments, don't you Thornton?"

"I wouldn't know." John admitted grudgingly. "I have not spent a great deal of time there."

John felt painfully aware of the roughness of his own voice. His accent was entirely different to the well polished way both Henry and Margaret spoke. He would never share that, and he knew full well that even after all this time Margaret’s family did not care for his accent. It was strange just how small this place made him feel. In Milton, he was one of the most powerful men. Here, he felt as small as a church mouse. Pathetic.

"A shame for children to be brought up amongst smoke and filth." Henry said, a taunting smile ghosting over his lips.

John swallowed, grasping his brandy glass and willing himself not to smack this man square in the mouth. John's children were no worse off than his; indeed, Arthur was growing so rapidly they could barely keep him in clothes. For this man to suggest growing up in Milton was some sort of obstacle to be overcome filled John with fury. He was enormously proud of his home and the part he had played in the industry that was flourishing there. Henry Lennox may have had a fine education and all that came with it, but did that make a man any better?

“I wouldn’t know.” John said. “Arthur will be as tall as me before long, the others are growing like weeds. It’s done them no harm.”

He took another swig of brandy, enjoying the way Henry’s shoulders stiffened at the mention of the eldest Thornton boy. John loved all his children equally, and he knew he would be just as content if all four of them were daughters. But the eyes of the law favoured boys, and admittedly it was a relief not to worry about who would take after him when he grew old. To a man like Henry, two daughters would be a disappointment, and an ugly part of John was pleased he had him beaten in this way at least.

An even uglier part whispered that he had proved verile enough to father two sons, as well as two daughters.

“But he is not at school, Thornton? A boy his age should not be at home, hiding behind his mother’s skirts.”

“My son,” John bit out “Is being educated by his very capable mother. I do not wish to send him to school so that he might be beaten into subordination.”

Henry scoffed, his lip twitching once more. God, had he always been this insufferable? Or was John merely more irritable than usual? He wanted to take Margaret and go home, but they came to London so rarely that she wished to spend time with her family. Captain Lennox was otherwise engaged, and so John found himself with only Henry to take brandy with.

“A bit extreme perhaps, Thornton? A little caning never hurt anyone.”

The thought of any man, let alone some teacher who disliked Arthur’s free spirit and quick mind, touching his son made John’s stomach turn.

“No.” John said firmly. “My children stay at home.”

Henry cast a look up and down, barely concealing his contempt. John slugged down the last of his brandy, the burn of it making his chest ache. He needed to cough, but he knew doing so would only give way to a fit of it.

“It is a boy’s right of passage to go to school. If I had sons, they would be gone by six. It makes one a man. Surely you went to school?”

“Aye, I did, but it no more made me a man than anything else.” John said, not mentioning that he left school as soon as his father died. That’s what made him a man - responsibility, a duty to his family. “My sons will be fine.”

He thought of Arthur, so energetic and enthusiastic about all things, and Joseph, so naughty and unpredictable and wild. He did not want miniature adults, too scared to make a noise. He wanted children, his chaotic little family he had created with his wife. People may not be used to allowing children so much freedom, but he could see the benefits in it. They were happy. That was enough.

Why was he sitting there allowing every aspect of his life to be picked apart - his wife, his children, his home?

"If you'll excuse me.” John said, rising from his chair. "I will find my wife and make our apologies. It has been a long day."

He placed his half empty brandy glass down and left the room before Lennox had time to make any further comment. John was well aware he was rude, but he did not care. Let Henry sneer over that too, let him mock the ill mannered Northern brute who had married someone so far above him.

* * *

"John? Are you well?" Margaret asked as she sat at the dressing table of their hotel room. “You’re stomping around a little, dear.”

They were both readying for bed, but he had been rather loud in all that he did. He had practically strangled himself in his haste to remove his cravat, and she was sure the mirror would be cracked by the ferocity of his scowl. She watched his reflection as she removed her earrings, and he did not look up as he replied.

"Just tired.” He muttered as he undid the buttons of his shirt.

Margaret nodded; it was understandable that he was tired. Indeed, some days he looked almost broken, he was so weary. He had been working almost non stop, barely eating, scarcely sleeping for more than three hours a night. His chest had been bad too, for she woke most nights to the sound of him gasping for breath. He tried to hide it, but she did not wish nor need to be shielded from his pain.

"You have barely spoken to me all evening."

"I've nothing to say."

The tone of his voice made her pause, her hand hovering over the hairbrush in front of her. She turned to look at him, but his back was turned away from her. This was most unlike him. This time of night was usually a chance to discuss their days with one another, the only time they were alone with no children to interrupt them.

"Did you enjoy dinner?" Margaret pressed, picking up the brush and beginning to comb it through her hair. “I thought it was rather nice, but Aunt Shaw does go on so. And Edith was describing the new shoes she has purchased for the children in such meticulous detail I thought I might fall asleep.”

"It was fine."

"Anne was telling me they are going away for the winter." Margaret continued, counting the strokes of the brush in her head. “To some country estate or another.”

"Lennox told me."

His tone was sharp. It really was most confusing; all had appeared to be fine when they had left Aunt Shaw’s. Henry seemed to be in a fine mood, so a fight or an argument seemed unlikely.

"John, don't call him Lennox. You make him sound like an associate, at least call him Mr Lennox. He is practically family." Margaret sighed, realising she had lost count of the strokes. She sighed, placing the brush down and beginning to separate her hair to braid it for the night.

"He's not mine." John said as he tugged his nightshirt over his head.

Margaret frowned; it had always been a peculiar relationship between her husband and cousin’s brother in law, but she thought any hostility had long since passed. It had been years now, and the two men had at least given the impression of being something close to civil to one another.

"John, is everything alright?"

“Fine.”

She turned to see John pull back the covers of the large bed, far larger than their bed at home. Though Aunt Shaw always wished for them to stay with her when they visited London, Margaret was rather fond of the luxury of staying in a hotel. For a start, when it was just John and herself on a trip, it allowed them a little freedom to - well, enjoy themselves. Four children and a busy life did rather take its toll.

Margaret realised that any enjoyment was quite out of the question when John turned his back on her and slammed his head into the pillow. Oh no, this would not do at all. She was not sure what had happened or what had upset him, but she would not allow her husband to fall asleep in such a foul mood. She took a deep breath, mustering all the patience she had. She hated to admit it, but sometimes dealing with one’s husband was not so dissimilar to calming a child’s tantrum. Patience and understanding were required in bucket loads.

She slid into bed beside him, the sheets rather cold and damp. She thought longingly of home, of the warmer placed in the bed each night. She thought of her children who would sometimes creep out of their own beds in the middle of the night and join them, creating a joyfully warm nest of limbs. She felt a pang of longing for them then, though she would see them the very next day when she and John returned to Milton.

“John.” Margaret moved closer to him, for he was warm and her feet felt like two blocks of ice. “Talk to me.”

“Go to sleep.” John grunted in response.

“John..”

“What?” He almost shouted the question at her, and she blinked in shock.

“Oi!” Margaret spoke before she could think, offended at his brusque manner. She realised just how like him she sounded, clapping a hand over her mouth and giggling.

John turned to her, his mouth twitching with a tiny smile. She reached out and stroked his cheekbone with her thumb, wincing as he flinched away from her.

“What I mean, John, is do not snap at me like that. Something is wrong and I shall find out what it is sooner or later so you may as well tell me.”

“It is nothing. I am tired. Stop pestering me about it.”

Margaret frowned. She felt tears prick at her eyes, though she blinked them away furiously.

“No. No, you do not speak to me in this manner. I am your wife, not your employee that you might snap at without being challenged about it.”

“I’m sorry.”

There was something in his eyes. Sadness, she supposed. He looked so very tired that it made her ache. Had she not noticed just how exhausted he looked? Had she been so busy that she had forgotten him? He took such gentle care of her, yet she had been so absorbed in other things that she had not afforded him the same consideration.

“Come here.” She said, holding out her arms to him.

He did not move for a moment, eventually shuffling towards her still on his side. He lay beside her, not looking at her. His eyes were closed as though he might sleep, but the tense line of his jaw suggested otherwise.

Margaret could not force him to come closer, so instead she ran her hand through his hair. His shoulders stiffened and then relaxed as she threaded her fingers through his thick mane. It was still dark, though glimmers of grey peeked through the black. He exhaled as she twirled a few strands around her fingers.

“John, tell me what is the matter. I know you are tired, my love. There is something else. I know you.”

“It is nothing.”

“Please, darling. I do not like to see you so tense. Tell me what I might do to calm you.”

“I am quite well.”

“Fine.” Margaret shrugged. “Then I will stop ask-”

“Do you wish I were more like him?” John said in a rush, his deep voice thick with emotion.

“Like who?” Margaret asked, frowning for she truly had no clue to whom he was referring.

“Lennox. Henry.” His voice twisted mockingly on Henry’s name, and Margaret sighed as all the pieces fell into place.

It was no secret that her husband and Henry only tolerated one another. So many years had passed that it would be rather big headed to believe Henry held any sort of affection for beyond that of a friend. Henry himself was long since married to Anne, and their marriage seemed a well matched one. This sudden questioning was rather bewildering.

“What’s brought this on?” Margaret asked. “You are not usually so bothered by him.”

“It has been a hard winter, yet I cannot take you away and spare you the discomfort.”

Margaret frowned. Yes, the weather in Milton in the winter months was far from ideal, but she did not mind it. It was difficult when the children sickened, as well as the cough that plagued John every winter, but it was nothing that she could not cope with. Indeed, she wished only that she could make things a little easier for the mill workers. Some of the children came to school wrapped in newspaper beneath their clothes just to keep warm. Those were the souls who needed help, not her.

“I have no wish to be taken away. I wish to stay in my home and live my life. I do not run away from the cold, it is not something that should be feared as though it were a horrible monster.” Margaret sighed. “John, do you know why I have so much adoration for you, so much respect for you as a man?”

“Why?”

Margaret thought for a moment as she gazed down at him. He held her gaze with a blank expression, and she wished only to see him smile at her.

“Because you treat me as your equal. You do not treat me as though I lack a brain; you listen to me, you afford me my independence. Anne told me they are leaving London for the country, and that she does not wish to go.”

“What?”

“Henry insists on leaving the children with their governess for he does not want the noise and the bother. Anne, though she would not dare complain, told me that she will miss them. She had tears in her eyes when she was telling me, John. She tried to pretend all was well, of course, but she is no actress. She does not wish to be parted from them, yet Henry treats those girls as mere inconveniences simply because they are not boys.”

“But they’re his children.” John said incredulously. “How could he leave them behind? He was looking down his nose at Milton as being an unsuitable place for children, yet he would leave his own for weeks?”

“You see? Another reason I love you so. You are the kindest father, John. So loving, so wise.” Margaret leaned down to kiss his forehead. “Our children adore you, my love. And I see the love that you have for our brood in your eyes each time they enter the room. How could I think you are not enough for me? How could I wish for another husband for even a moment, when I have you?”

“You were born for this life, Maggie. The life a wealthy heiress deserves.”

Margaret laughed softly. The money Mr Bell gave her had long been spent, invested in the school and the mill. The money was no longer hers, it had not been hers from the moment she had married John, but she had had a fair say over where it had gone. In fact, she had to convince John he could take what he needed and invest the repayments back into the mill. She had enough for her school room and a small amount for any emergencies that might arise, that was all she required.

“I spent many years living that life, long before I was an heiress. Though I freely admit I did not care for Milton when my father first moved us there, it is truly my home now. It has been ten years, darling, ten years since our wedding day. My home is wherever you are, for wherever you are is where my heart lies.”

“I know things are not as easy as they would be for you here.” John began, apparently deaf to her declaration.

Margaret could not allow him to continue in that manner. He would talk himself into a corner, fill his mind with doubts that would consume him. He was exhausted, and she did not wish his thoughts to exhaust him too. Tonight her husband, so strong and stoic, needed comfort.

She leaned down to kiss the top of his head, cradling him closely. He did not try to move; indeed he merely pressed further into her, his hand on her shoulder playing with the loose waves of hair she had not yet braided. If she fell asleep like this, she would awake in the morning with a bird nest upon her head.

“Perhaps they are not. Perhaps if I had married Henry, I would be living a life of dinner parties and dances. I would attend the theatre and entertain his colleagues wives. We would have neat, agreeable children who never so much as raised their voice.” John stiffened. “And I would be suffocated. I would be treated as a possession, valued only for my appearance and childbearing ability. My children would be raised by governesses and kept in the nursery out of sight. I would not be treasured as you treasure me. Listened to as you listen to me. Respected as you respect me.”

He looked up at her, his eyes shining. She felt her heart beat faster, for the love that she had for him hit her all at once; a wave of it, slamming into her. She cherished him so dearly in a way that she had previously never imagined possible. How blessed she was.

“I do. You are the most extraordinary person I have known.” He inhaled, his nose pressed to her neck. Margaret smiled as she felt his body relax against hers. “You know I do my best for you?”

“I know. I know you do.” She ghosted her fingertips along the crown of his head, down over his ears and along the exposed skin of his neck. “You take such wonderful care of all of us, John. I do not like seeing you like this, darling. You are tired. When is your first meeting tomorrow?”

“Not until nine.”

“Then you shall rest.” Margaret murmured.

He pulled her closer to him, his head resting on her chest as he closed his eyes. She smiled.

“I love you.”

“I love you.” She kissed the top of his head again. “If it would make you feel more assured, I would list every little thing that makes me admire you so greatly.”

John cleared his throat.

“Go on.”

“I was joking!” Margaret laughed.

“Is the list so short?” John teased as he played with a lock of her hair.

Margaret smiled, shuffling further down so their faces were level with one another. In the dim light of the lamps she had yet to extinguish, she studied him carefully.

“This ridge, just here.” She traced a finger down the side of his forehead. “When you frown, or smile, it appears. I prefer to see it when you are smiling, but I cannot explain why I like it so much.”

John let out a wisp of a laugh, and Margaret smiled. She moved her fingertip from his forehead to his jaw.

“Hmm.” Margaret kissed his neck. She thought of the next item of this imaginary list she had compiled in her head. “Your voice. I like when you are passionate about something or angry - though I do not care for your temper at times - I like the way your voice changes. And when you are playing with the children, all your t’s and g’s fly out of the window.”

“I know I do not speak like-”

“Stop it. You are a Northerner, it does not make you less than anyone else. London is not the center of the world, as much as some would have you believe it is. You are remarkably intelligent, you have such a fine eye. You have a great understanding of people, even if you are not in agreement with them. Anyone who believes you are inferior because you speak differently is a damned fool.”

His lip quirked upwards at her cursing, for she rarely swore. She felt a righteous fury stab at her, for if Henry had insulted her husband for his voice she would surely slap him herself.

“It’s you who understands folk.”

“I try, but I fear I rush in quite ahead of myself sometimes. You are more careful.” She paused as she resumed reciting her invisible list, trying to think of something a little more romantic. “The voices you do for the children when you read stories. I love to hear you read to them.”

“You hear that?”

Margaret nodded guiltily; though he was often too busy with the mill to read to the children before bed, he did so whenever he could. One night, when she had been occupied with something else and had not been with them, she had listened to him reading and discovered when there were no other adults to hear, he performed rather ridiculous voices for the children’s entertainment. Whenever she heard him, it brought her a great joy that her children had a father so willing to pander to their imaginations.

“Sometimes as I pass by the door. What else? Your kindness. You may not think yourself particularly kind, but you are. Kindness is not weakness, and you are certainly not weak, my love. You do not suffer fools, another thing that I admire, but when it is required your kindness is clear to see. To the children, especially. Do you know how glad it makes me to see you with our children, with our nieces and nephews? You are gentle underneath it all.”

“I don’t know how many folk’d describe me as gentle.” He muttered. “You might be alone in that opinion.”

“Perhaps. But then - I like that. I like that this side of you is mine. Call me possessive perhaps, but I should like to keep this John for my own.”

“Always yours.” He kissed her lips. When he pulled away, he looked at her carefully. “And you swear it, you’ve never wished I were another man?”

“No!” Margaret said, wide eyed. “Of course I have not! Not even for a moment. You are all I could have dared dreamed. John, I do not like to see such sadness in your eyes. I have neglected you, haven’t I? We have been so busy these past few months, between the mill, the school and the children. I am afraid we have forgotten each other.”

“I’ve been keeping you awake with my chest too. Some days you have near fallen asleep at the dinner table, Maggie. It’s my fault. I’m no gentleman.”

“Stop it. If only you could see what I see! I do not mind being woken by your chest, for I only wish to ease your suffering! I work all day because I feel purpose helping those less fortunate than us, and you have enabled me to do so. I raise our children because that is what I wish to do, and you have not tried to convince me to hand them to governesses and boarding schools. Do you not see? I may be exhausted at times but I relish it.”

John looked at her wordlessly, before lunging forward. His hands threaded through her hair, pulling her towards him with a fire and a hunger she had not seen in him for some months. She crashed their mouths together, clinging to his shoulders as all the frustrations and misunderstandings melted away.


	11. Cotton Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John asks that the two lengths of cotton make a reappearance...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a "sorry Elizabeth Gaskell" one.
> 
> It contains strong sexual content and consensual (mild) BDSM including light spanking (I really hate that word)

“Do you still have those lengths of cotton?”

Margaret paused, looking back at him in the mirror.

“What lengths of cotton?”

The memory of that night, almost a year ago now, had not left him. He could not help but feel a little deflated that she did not remember it with the same clarity. Hell, how many times had he found himself hard just at the thought of it?

“How many lengths of cotton do you have, Maggie?”

“We live in a mill, John. Cotton is something we are certainly not short of.”

He stood behind her, running a hand down the back of her hair. He loved seeing her like this, readying for bed at the end of each day. He held out his hand to her, and she wordlessly handed him the brush. She held his gaze in the mirror on her vanity, her eyes watching him with suspicion.

“You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?” Margaret asked.

He ran the brush through the back of her hair. He had done this a few times, and found it to be a strangely intimate way of spending time with his wife. Two children and a school and a mill to run left precious little time for such luxuries, but every now and then they would sit together like this. Tonight, John had a rather more elaborate plan.

He discarded the brush, placing it neatly on the table. Margaret turned on her seat to look at him, her lips quirked upwards in a smile. God, she was beautiful. She was near thirty now, and though he had not thought it possible, she had grown even more exquisite with age. She held herself with confidence and grace; she had always had those, it was true, but age had brought with it wisdom too. Her skin glowed, her hair shined and she was still as much of a wonder to him as she had been all those years ago.

He leaned down, brushing a curl away from her face and near whispering the words she was waiting to hear directly into her ear.

“The night you presented me with two lengths of cotton, covered my eyes, and bound my hands while you rode me so hard I near forgot my name. You’ve forgotten?”

He smirked triumphantly as he heard the sharp intake of breath and saw her hands grip at the wood of the dressing table, her eyes snapping shut as her lip was caught between her teeth. A flame-red blush, the likes of which he had not seen since they were newlywed, spread from her cheeks all the way down to her neck.

“Oh.” She swallowed heavily, her eyes opening slowly. “They’re underneath the mattress. Why?”

“Do you know how often I’ve thought of that night?”

“I - I thought perhaps you wished to forget it. I know it was too much to ask of you, I’m sorry. Are you cross at me, why are you raising it now?”

“I was wondering if perhaps - I might take a turn.”

“What?” Margaret asked, eyes widening. 

“You seemed to enjoy yourself.”

“Yes, but it was - it was only because I was uncomfortable with the changes in my body. The baby is one now, and I am used to the difference. There is no need to hide from one another, is there?”

“I can’t explain how it felt, but what started as a duty, a favour - Christ, Maggie, it was extraordinary. I can’t describe it.”

“But you do not wish to repeat it in the same way?” Margaret asked. “You wish to be the one - well, the one in charge, I suppose.”

Just as she always managed, Margaret had read his mind. He was not proud of it, this base instinct that had consumed his thoughts when he had far better things to think of. Yet the thought of giving his wife pleasure in the way she had touched him - it was a desire he could not push away.

“The thought of having you there, at my mercy-” He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m thinking of. We might as well burn the damn things.”

He felt a hand on his cheek, and he opened his eyes to see Margaret standing before him. She was not smiling, but she did not look angry either.

“John, you may speak to me of your desires, you know. Though I would not claim to know much of these things, I felt rather - rather excited by it too. If you wish to know how I felt, I would be rather unfair to deny you the same thing you allowed me.”

“I want you to want it too. If you do not, we need never speak of this again.”

“Perhaps we could try it.” She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him down to meet her lips.

She kissed him with a passion he had not seen for her in some months. Their lives had been busy. Any chance they had had to be close to one another had been hastily taken, but while their rushed encounters had been no less appreciated, John would freely admit to missing the days when they could take their time.

She pulled away, lips swollen already from the force of their kisses. Her eyes sparkled in the dim firelight, her hair curling around her face most enticingly indeed.

“Shall I fetch them?”

“Yes.”

She turned, walking to their bed and lifting the mattress. It was not particularly heavy, but he stepped forward and lifted the corner. Nodding her thanks, she crouched down and fumbled blindly beneath the mattress until she pulled free the two familiar lengths of cotton. She ran them through her fingers, staring down at them.

“Tell me how you felt.” John said, replacing the mattress and smoothing down the sheets that had been left rumpled. 

“What?”

“I want to know how it felt. Did you enjoy it?”

“You know that I did.” Margaret whispered, her cheeks flushing. “You must have felt it.”

“Aye, I felt it. I felt you come all over my cock, even if I could not see you.”

“John.”

“Take off your nightgown.”

Margaret stared at him, and for a moment he thought she might protest at his sharp tone. He braced himself for an apology he surely owed her, but instead, he simply watched as she removed her nightgown and dropped it to the floor.

She held his gaze, daring him to do something. Stepping forward, he wrapped his hands around her waist and tugged her close. Her arms threaded around his neck, and she looked up at him with a smile.

“What would you have me do, sir?”

Fuck.

“You tease me, wife?”

“No. No, not at all.” Margaret flinched, visibly panicked that she had offended him in some way. “I’m sorry.”

“Maggie, it’s alright. You know you cannot do wrong here. Just - it is shameful, but the word sir coming from you - I am hard as stone.”

She melted back into him, her chest pressed against him. This felt decidedly wicked, for they had never teased one another in such a manner before. It surprised him how, after nearly five years of marriage, there was still so much to learn.

“Then perhaps you should undress, husband. Sir. Master.” She said, rolling her eyes as she laughed.

John did not laugh.

It was wrong, totally wrong, but to hear the title that folk called him every day of his life from her - it sparked something in him, and he could not hold back the groan that was torn from him. She looked up at him questioningly, clearly puzzled at the reaction she had drawn from him.

“Say it again.” He choked out, hands gripping at her shoulders.

She looked at him, and he saw her understanding dawn in her face. She held his gaze with an intensity that took his breath away. Her smile had gone now, and there was only lust left on her face.

“Please, Master.”

“Undress me.” He leaned down and kissed her, his hand cupping the side of her face. He did not understand what was happening here, nor the strange urge he had to command her.

Her mouth pressed hard against his, her hands worked at the buttons of his shirt, her slender fingers tugging at the knot of his cravat. She did not break apart from him as she tugged the shirt down and over his arms. She pulled away from him, and he was about to protest when she fell to her knees in front of him.

Surely he must be dreaming.

“Maggie.” He damn near whimpered her name as her fingers worked at the opening of his trousers. “You don’t have to-”

Words left him as her mouth wrapped around him. He tried to find something to hold onto, for the pleasure was so sharp he was sure his legs would buckle beneath him as she sucked him.

He closed his eyes, knowing if he glanced down at her it would be too much. He once prided himself on his self-control, but he would be the first to admit he had lost that particular quality upon marriage. Margaret could reduce him to dust with a mere glance, the slightest brush of her skin against his. He was utterly lost to her.

“Darling.” He choked out, all too aware if this carried on much longer he would truly embarrass himself. “Darling, stand up.”

She pulled back, holding out her hand for him to help her up. He pulled her to her feet, taking her face in his and kissing her desperately, feeling his own lips bruise at the force. He fumbled with the waistband of his trousers, finally pushing them down and kicking them off. His fingers tightened in her hair, crushing her closer to his mouth. Passion overwhelmed him, and he caught her lip between his teeth between her lip considerably harder than he intended. She whimpered against his mouth, the sound jolting him from his stupor.

“I’m sorry.” He panted, pulling away as he held her chin to examine her mouth.

She frowned at him in confusion at his sudden concern.

“What’s the matter?”

“You cried out, I thought - I’ve hurt you, haven’t I?”

“I am quite well.” Margaret insisted. “I - I liked it. I think perhaps you are too gentle with me sometimes. Do you remember in Spain, when you pushed me against the wall and..did things.”

As comfortable as they were with one another, it was no secret that Margaret found it difficult to vocalise what they did in their marriage bed (or indeed, against walls). It was not because she was ashamed of it, for he knew she held no guilt for how she loved him, but merely years of being taught that such things were never to be spoken of. He had no such qualms, and he delighted in her blushes and breathy sighs when he whispered filthy words into her ear.

“Aye, I remember.” He nipped at her earlobe, hands clutching her waist as he tugged her closer. Her breasts pressed against him, and he lowered his head to trail a path from collarbone to nipple with his tongue.

There was no mistaking her appreciation, for her hand tightened in his hair, tugging at the dark strands as she wrapped the hand that rested between them tightly around his length. He cursed under his breath, his eyes slamming shut as she worked at him mercilessly. For all her coyness, she knew exactly what to do to drive him to the brink of insanity.

“I found that I enjoyed it greatly. You do not need to be so gentle with me John, for I will not shatter. Trust that I will tell you if I am uncomfortable.” Margaret said softly, her hand still moving at a tauntingly slow pace. “In fact - I find it rather thrilling when you tell me what to do.”

“You do?” He bit out, his fingers clenching at her shoulders just for something to hold onto. “You swear it?”

“Yes. I swear it.” She breathed, hand still frantically working at him.

“Stop.” 

Her hand stilled immediately, her eyes looking intently at him while she waited for further instructions. Desire flared through him, and all he wanted to do was throw her on the bed and fuck her until she cried out his name.

It was no secret that he had a temper, but that side of him rarely entered his marriage. In truth, they had scarcely even argued - and he wondered if he’d been holding that side of himself back. He wanted to be the best person he could for her, for their family, and if that meant biting his tongue then that is what he did. Now, however, she was giving him permission to let some of that baseness out, to dominate and control in a way that she enjoyed.

“Get on the bed.”

She backed towards the bed, never taking her eyes off him, and he swept his eyes appreciatively over her body. Her body was fuller than it had been before children, but it only made her more beautiful. She was all soft curves and full breasts, and it made him ache for her. The faint silvery lines on her stomach were marks of her bravery, only to be worshipped and admired. He wanted to see every inch of her, touch her everywhere; he certainly did not wish to be blindfolded too often, for then he would be blind to the sheer perfection that was Margaret Thornton.

She sat on the edge of the bed, apparently awaiting further instruction. He took a deep breath, willing himself to stay strong or this new experimentation between them would surely be over before it had even begun. 

“Lie back.” 

She did as asked, head on the pillow. Without prompting, she raised her arms above her head, joining her hands. His hands tightened into fists by his side, nails digging into the palms of his hands just to get some control. 

“Christ, you’re perfect.”

“The way you look at me..” Margaret began, before biting her lip and seemingly thinking better of what she was about to say. 

“What about it?” 

“Like you would devour me.”

A guttural growl escaped him, and she whimpered once more. The sound pierced him as efficiently as a spike, and he launched himself at her, his mouth finding hers and kissing her with a fierceness that would bruise them both.

He felt her hands in his hair and he pulled back. She began to speak, but he grabbed her wrists and pushed her arms back to their prior position. 

“Keep them there.”

“Yes. Master.” 

“Fuck.” His head fell forward, and he buried himself in her neck. He dragged his tongue over the point of her pulse, feeling it throb wildly beneath him. “You tease me again?”

“No.” 

“Who is your master then, wife?” 

Pulling back and sitting beside her, he watched her carefully. Her chest rose rapidly, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. He had seen her in such a state too many times to count, yet this was different. There was something far more intimate about the trust she was displaying. 

“You. You, husband.”

“I’m going to fasten your hands. If you wish to stop, tell me at once. You understand?”

“I do.”

Reaching for those two damned strips of cotton, he caressed the delicate skin of her wrists before wrapping the material loosely around her wrists. He had no wish to hurt her by binding her too tightly, so tied a loose knot in the end. 

“Alright?” He grunted, for the sight of her bound had rendered him incapable of proper speech.

She nodded. 

“I need to hear you.”

“Yes.” 

“Good.”

“And my eyes?” Margaret asked. 

“You’re sure?”

“I thought you were my master,” Margaret said with a challenging spark in her eyes. “Surely that is your choice to make.”

“Minx.” He groaned. 

She closed her eyes, and John ran the remaining length of cotton between his fingers. He wrapped it around her eyes, careful once more not to tie her too tightly. 

Oh, Christ. 

This was the most erotic thing he had ever seen in his whole damned life. He eyed her greedily, not sure where to begin. His cock screamed at him to settle between her legs and sink into heaven. His mind told him to make her come first, to make her writhe and moan his name while helplessly bound.

He took his time in his explorations of her willing body, knowing his path so well that he might as well be blindfolded too. He knew precisely where to kiss to earn a shiver, how she liked a slight drag of his teeth over her nipples. God, those breasts were a masterpiece, and he took his time admiring them. He ran a hand over her thighs, as she had done to him when he had been in her place. marveled at the way he could feel the muscles tense beneath his hands. Is this what she had felt, an absolute power combined with an absolute sense of trust? Her pleasure was a gift, her unfaltering trust a greater treasure still.

He continued to touch her with his hands, teasing strokes with the tips of his fingers. Up, down, never where she clearly ached for him. She groaned and twisted her body, chasing after the hand that she could not see. Before he could stop himself, he slapped her thigh lightly. The crack that filled the room told him that perhaps it was not as light as he had intended.

“God, I’m so-”

“No.” Margaret gritted out, her body flat against the bed as her movement ceased. “No, it is fine.”

“I struck you.”

“It did not hurt. You were instructing me, and I shall listen.”

He nodded, though it was useless as she was unable to see. He murmured an agreement, then resumed his touching. They had such little time to be intimate in this way that, suddenly, it was no longer about power or whatever game they were playing. He wanted to touch her, to give her everything he could.

His mouth against the peak of her nipple, his hand began to touch her where she craved. She hissed in relief as his fingers drove a quick rhythm against her, grinding shamelessly against him.

“I’m - oh God, I’m going-”

He pulled his hand away, fingers curling into her hip bones to keep her in place.

“No. You’ll come when I let you. You’ll come against my mouth, not my hand.”

As soon as the words had left him, he feared he had overstepped some line. When she merely nodded, a mischievous smile on her swollen lips, he could no longer hold back.

Restraint gone, he dove between her legs, kissing her there with an urgency that he had not realised had built within him. Her back arched as she cried out, and he gave her a gentle slap on the thigh to remind her that, however much he wanted to hear her bliss, they were not alone in this house.

She was silent in her pleasure, lip firmly caught between her teeth as her back rose higher and higher. Time did not exist as he pleased her, for all he focused on were the tiny, almost imperceptible noises that rose from her however desperately she tried to suppress them. 

He pulled back slightly, replacing tongue with fingers.

“You want to come? Come for your master.”

God, he wanted to hear her. As his mouth resumed its work, she was unable to remain quiet any longer and came with a shuddering cry of his name.

He was sure his name had never sounded so fine.

“Please, John.” She strained against her bindings, though he had tied them so loosely she surely could have broken them if she wished. “Please, God, please..”

“Tell me what you want.” He moved from his place between her thighs to lie beside her, unashamedly pushing himself into the side of her hip.

“That.”

“What?”

“John..”

“Say it.”

“I can’t.”

“Tell me what you want. Tell me what you want your master to give you.”

She swallowed heavily, her body twisting towards him. He slapped her thigh again, harder this time, and her head bowed back in ecstasy.

“Fuck me, please.” She whispered in a hoarse cry, though how she managed to control her volume he did not understand. “Give me your cock, please!”

He rose to his knees and roughly shoved her legs apart, settling between them with unbridled urgency and sinking into her. His eyes snapped shut, his body slumping on top of her as he buried his head in the crook of her neck.

“Oh, Christ. Heaven.”

“Please, please!” Margaret bucked her hips against him.

He did not correct her, merely allowed her to move at her own pace while he tried to hold himself back. After a few more desperate mewls in his ear, he began to move in a punishing pace, so fast he could scarcely catch his breath. She grew tighter around him, muttering near silent curses in his ear as she came around him. She always felt exquisite, but tonight it was magnified. He felt like he might snap in half with the pleasure. He gripped her arms tightly as he came inside her, groaning into her hair that she was the best woman in the world.

After the pleasure had subsided a little, he tried to support his weight on his forearms, yet he felt almost boneless with exhaustion and elation. Margaret panted beneath him, her body trembling beneath him. With a start, he realised her arms had been in an unnatural position for a long time, and he hastily untied her and removed the sheath from her eyes.

“Was I too rough?” He asked, suddenly panicked at the sight of her swollen lips and tear-filled eyes.

“No.” She breathed, a smile as wide as he had ever seen on her face. “No, that was really rather exhilarating.”

As her arms returned to their natural position by her side, he caught sight of two matching finger-shaped red welts on her upper arms. Guilt stabbed violently at him, shame overwhelming him instantly.

“I’ve hurt you.” He said, gentle hands closing over each wound as though he could take the marks away and inflict them upon his own skin. “I’m sorry, what man am I to hurt you like this? I lost my mind, I’m sorry, it will never-”

“Hmm?” Margaret interrupted dreamily, shaking his hands free and peering down at her arms. “Oh. I did not notice. Oh, that was wonderful.”

“Truly?”

“Mmm.” She closed her eyes, tugging him into a close embrace. “I am rather glad I didn’t burn them after all.”


	12. Miss Hale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains sex and is rated 18+
> 
> Margaret pays a call to her husband, still working past midnight. However, for once she does not wish to take him away from his desk...

To some women, Margaret had learned, the marriage bed was merely a duty to be endured; a necessary evil if a couple wanted children. It was whispered about at social gatherings, the women discreetly comparing notes as they blushed and gave advice to the newlyweds amongst them about how one might avoid the eager attentions of a demanding husband without causing offence. 

Margaret neither needed nor desired such advice.

In fact, she was certain that the nature of her own marital relations would render many of the women she knew speechless. Margaret Thornton not only welcomed her husband’s amorous advances, but matched them with her own. Time had done little to quench the desire she felt for him. Indeed the passing years had served only to embolden them. Gone was the hesitance of their few months as man and wife, replaced with an understanding of their bodies and of the pleasure it was possible to feel.

That was not to say Margaret was always entirely comfortable; her mind still whispered she was too wanton, too forward. Women’s pleasure was not important to most men, that is what she knew to be true. Her pleasure was John’s ultimate goal. He revelled in pleasing her, took her moans and her gasps and touched her until she felt like she would snap in half with the sensations he gave her. 

Six years of marriage, two children - and he still looked at her just as he did when they were newlyweds. He still kissed her as though he had not seen her in months, touched her as though he would die if he stopped. Since the birth of their second child, though, she had seen a new side to him - and herself.

It had started with those lengths of cotton, when she had tied his wrists and covered his eyes and touched him so he could not see her body. A few months later, he had proposed she take her turn under the bindings. It had been wonderful. Since then, three more strips of cotton had found a place in their bedroom (discreetly hidden beneath the mattress, for if anyone were to find them Margaret was sure she would turn as red as a beetroot immediately) - so hands and feet might be tied separately. It did not happen too often, and it was always a welcome surprise when the lengths of cotton were removed from their hiding place.

That first time she had been bound, the word “master” slipped from her lips; a tease at first turned serious when she had seen the effect it had on her husband. He did not wish to control her nor command her in their daily life, for he granted her many freedoms other husbands would not. Yet in their marriage bed, there were nights he greatly enjoyed playing the overbearing master.

This new creativity in their lovemaking had given Margaret other ideas. On this particular night in late April, a rather stiff swig of brandy and a will of iron had lead to Margaret standing outside her husband’s office well past midnight - covered only by his dressing gown.

She swallowed any hesitation she might feel - for the alcohol made her light-headed but had not robbed her of all her wits - and lifted her hand to knock on the door.

“Come.”

She pushed the door open and smiled at the sight that greeted her. The fire burned dully in the grate, one lantern on the desk illuminating the rather dishevelled figure who sat there. His head was bent down as he sorted through the enormous stack of papers that littered the desk’s surface. When he looked up to see who was there, she laughed at the enormous splodge of ink that marred his right cheek. His hair stuck up at wild angles, his shirt sleeves similarly stained to his cheek. He smiled, at once looking far younger than his thirty nine years.

“I know, I know.” He said before she had a chance to speak. “I know it’s late, I’m coming, I’m sorry.”

“It is past midnight.” Margaret confirmed, closing the door behind her. 

“I’m almost finished.” John replied, once again consumed with work as he scribbled hastily on a piece of paper.

Margaret stood, admiring him as he worked frantically. He worked so very hard to provide for them, to secure their future as a family. He worked too hard; that would never change, but she would never stop urging him to come to bed when the hour grew too late.

“Happy birthday, darling.”

He huffed out a dismissive laugh.

“Another year older.”

“Another year wiser.” Margaret countered. “I thought I might give you your present.”

“Now? I need to finish these. You should get some rest.”

Hands at the tie of the robe, Margaret tugged on the belt until the knot was untied. She allowed the robe to fall from her shoulders, taking a deep breath as it fell to the floor and pooled around her ankles.

“Now.”

He looked up, his face a picture of irritation as he prepared to argue with her. Then, as his eyes dragged up her bare body, that irritation was replaced by a grin as broad as she had ever seen grace her husband’s stern features.

“Here?” He choked out.

Margaret’s confidence faltered. Perhaps this was an idea too far. They had strayed beyond the safety of their bedroom once or twice before, but never here nor in any other room of their home. There were too many servants, too many children. Here, at this hour, seemed exciting yet safe for it was most unlikely they would be disturbed.

“I’m sorry. Is it too foolish? I just thought-”

“Lock the door.”

She turned and did as he asked. As she made to turn around, she felt the warmth of him as he held her close, soft cotton against her back as he rested his chin on her shoulder. She leaned back, relishing his embrace. She looked up at him, laughing as she tried to wipe away the stripe of ink that still marked his cheek. He allowed her to paw at him until the stain had vanished, tutting as she wiped her hand on the already dirty sleeve of his shirt. He pressed a kiss to her forehead as they stood in silence in a tight embrace. She felt safe, content in the silence.

“So, this is my gift?” He murmured in her ear, pausing to kiss the exposed skin of her neck. “It is certainly beautiful.”

“It is not just me. I thought perhaps - I have always - your desk.”

“What of it?” His hands began to stray away from her waist, brushing over her stomach and down to her hip bones. His fingers stroked the skin there softly, and Margaret found herself quite unable to think.

“I-”

Her breath caught and her words were snatched away as he pressed a hand between her legs. She moaned as he began to draw tiny circles with his fingertips in a manner that threatened to turn her legs to jelly.

“This is for you.” Margaret protested helplessly. 

“And I like it very much.” He bit down on her shoulder as he nudged her legs wider apart. “The finest gift I have ever received.”

“This is not what I meant-”

“Then what did you mean?” 

“I wished to touch you. Master.”

He hissed, his hips pushing into her backside most insistently. He groaned in her ear, his free hand tightening on her waist.

“You know what that does to me, Maggie.”

She knew precisely the effect that word, when uttered by her, had on him. How it made him desperate and needy. How it made him all at once dominating yet utterly lost to whatever she asked of him. 

“I know.”

“Minx.”

His hand still moved insistently against her, and she felt the pleasure building as he touched her expertly. She was fast losing hold of her senses, and they had not even made it further than the doorway. She had meant to seduce him, to give him pleasure without demanding her own in return.

“The desk.” She said, finally breaking free from his embrace. She turned to face him, her back flush against the wall as he pinned her there, one hand braced on the wood behind her head. “John..please..”

“Where would you have me, temptress?”

“Sit. Please.”

He lunged forwards, kissing her so hard and so insistently she did not wish to leave - before he retreated, walking backwards towards the desk. He looked ridiculous, but any temptation to laugh vanished when she saw the hunger in his eyes. His gaze did not leave her bare body, even as he sat down. He stared at her with desperation.

Margaret was sure his expression was reflected in her own. She ached for him, his handsome face and strong body never failing to quicken her heart each time she looked upon them. She held her shoulders high as she walked towards him, painfully aware of his gaze. As much as she adored his body, her feelings about her own were not as strong. Still, it did not matter.

“Christ. You’re perfect.”

She said nothing, merely accepting his praise with a smile. The walk from the door to the desk felt like a thousand miles, each step taking far too long until she was by his side.

She knelt down, wishing that perhaps she wasn’t quite so naked and the floor wasn’t quite so hard, and ran her hands along his thighs. They were strong and well muscled under her palms, and she enjoyed feeling him tense underneath her touch. As she moved her hands higher, her fingertips barely grazing the fabric of his trousers as she went, she heard him mutter under his breath. When she looked up, his eyes were screwed tightly shut.

“Won’t you look at me?” She asked, her hands at the fly of his trousers. 

“I’m not sure I can.” He gritted out, knuckles almost white as he gripped onto the arms of the chair as her hand slipped beneath the fabric. “It’s too much.”

“What is?”

“Do you know how many times I’ve thought of having you here?” John asked, his eyes finally opened as her hand brushed him beneath the fabric of his trousers. “How many years I’ve dreamed of fucking you against this desk?”

Her breath grew harsh, for the tone of his voice and the roughness of his words inspired nothing but hot, wanton desire in her.

“How many?” She whispered.

“Too many. More than we’ve been married, certainly. It is wro-oh god, yes, like that.”

She looked up at him, wide eyed. They had never spoken of any carnal desire they might have felt for one another prior to marriage; Margaret had known so little of those things that she had held no such fantasies. John, though as untouched as she had been on marriage, knew more. It was not surprising to her that he had had such thoughts about her - no, what was surprising is that he had waited so long to voice them. 

“Really?”

“I was a man besotted. I thought of little else but you. And yes, maybe on lonely nights where work overwhelmed me I dreamed of taking Miss Hale in my office.”

Though she had not been Miss Hale for some years now, Margaret felt her cheeks heat at the sound of her old name spoken with such passion. Though she had loved him for longer than she cared to admit, it would be an outrageous lie to say her thoughts of him then had been erotic in nature.

“What would you have done with me?” Margaret asked as she freed him. She ran a finger up the length of him, his flesh hot and hard under her touch, delighting as he hissed with pleasure. 

“Maggie, touch me properly.” He begged, his hand moving to her forearm and holding her in place lest she tried to move. “Now.”

“Tell me.” Margaret asked, wrapping her palm around him as he had commanded.

“You’ll think me a beast.”

“Too late. I thought you a beast from the first moment I saw you.” She teased. “So, you might as well tell me all of the terrible things you thought of.”

“They’re wrong.”

“We’re married now - I think my fragile sensibilities can just about withstand hearing your debauched fantasies.” 

She was teasing him, almost to the point of mockery. She wondered if it was too much, but he groaned as his hips pushed upwards into her fist. 

“Promise me you will not think less of me.” He asked, his voice suddenly serious though his breathing was ragged. “I - I was ashamed of such thoughts.”

Margaret stopped what she was doing, raising up on her knees and taking his face in her hands. He looked at her, his eyes not leaving hers as he stared at her. 

“There is no need for shame. I am your wife, I have asked a great many things of you that you could judge me for. I would never think less of you, you are too fine a man.”

“I think our ideas aren’t far different, wife. The desk.”

She raised an eyebrow, silently asking for more details. She loved the words he gave her; the curses, the lust filled compliments he showered on her and the sinful words that fell from him when consumed by pleasure. It was a strange power, really, to be able to draw such words from a man usually so considered in all that he did, whose thoughts and feelings were kept to himself. He gave her his thoughts, his secrets, his heart as easily as she trusted him with hers.

When he remained silent, she took him in her hand once more. He sucked in a sharp breath as she touched him more firmly than before. When he was almost sobbing beneath her teasing touch, calling her name as he gripped the arms of the chair with a splintering force, she leaned down and took him into her mouth. He yelped, that was the only word to describe the noise, groaning as he muttered desperate pleas.

When she drew back, she looked up at him again.

“Tell me. How am I to make it come true if I don’t know?”

“Oh, fuck.” He threw his head back as her mouth resumed its work. “I imagined you bent over the desk as I fucked you hard, your hands gripping the wood and you saying my name in that perfect voice. Sobbing it.”

She moaned around him, for though she had commanded he speak she had not expected that. They had never been together in that way, indeed she knew little about it at all. 

His hands were in her hair, caressing it as she moved. She pulled back, eyes meeting his. 

“Alright.”

“What?”

“I said alright. Take me like that.”

“Margaret - it was just - I would never ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t. I think it sounds thrilling.” Margaret admitted, rising to her feet and standing bare before him. She reached out, brushing the hair from his forehead and caressing his cheek. “Miss Hale and the overbearing Master.”

He stood, exposed yet still fully dressed. If such a sight could be considered comical, Margaret was not laughing. The expression on his face stole any smile from her face, that wolfish stare that she had seen so many times focused only on her body.

“Well then, Miss Hale.”

Margaret looked at the desk, a cluttered mess full of papers and half used bottles of ink. She raised an eyebrow at her husband.

“If only you kept a tidier desk, Mr Thornton.”

He picked up most of the papers in one big handful, placing them in a hastily arranged stack on the floor.

“That should be sufficient.” He said. “God, look at you.”

“John.” She urged him, for the office was hardly the warmest place in Milton and she was growing rather cold. 

“Mr Thornton.” He corrected, pulling her forward by her waist and capturing her mouth with a bruising force. He devoured her, one hand threading through her hair desperately as the other groped her breasts. She whimpered into his mouth as his hand found the curls between her legs, touching her so perfectly her knees almost buckled.

“So wet, Miss Hale.” 

She bit her lip as her head fell back. He buried his face in the juncture between her neck and shoulder, kissing and nipping at her as he brought her to bliss with his fingers. She gripped his forearms tightly as she came, trying desperately not to cry out. Though the door was closed, it was an echoey old place and she did not wish for the noise to carry.

“Bend over.” He murmured in her ear. “Hold on to the edge of the desk.”

She stood on unsteady feet, her body feeling pliant and drunk from pleasure. With one final look at him, she turned and did as he had bid her. She felt foolish, exposed; but before she had time to protest she felt the soft weight of him draped over her back, his voice soft in her ear.

“So beautiful, Miss Hale.” His hands swept over the side of her body from thigh to flank.

The sound of her maiden name sent a shiver through her, for though Miss Hale would never have consented to something as scandalous as this, Mrs John Thornton rather liked it. She heard the rustle of clothing but did not turn to look for fear that she would lose her nerve.

She felt the warmth of his bare legs against hers as he stood behind her, the insistent press of him against her most intimate place.

“Yes.” She breathed, hands tight against the edge of the desk. “Yes.”

He pushed inside her, hesitantly at first until he was buried to the hilt, his hip bones against the roundness of her backside. Margaret’s head fell forward, overwhelmed with the new sensations this position brought. She bit the back of her hand, swallowing down the cry that threatened to ring out. 

“Maggie?” He panted above her, their game broken as soon as he uttered her name. "Are you alright?"

“Continue.” She choked out. “Please, Master.”

He growled above her, fingers digging into her hip bones as he slammed his body into hers with uncontained force. She yelped, unused to such a feeling. He paused, but she shook her head. It was not unpleasant, and each sharp thrust of his hips sent sparks shooting through her.

He resumed his pace, far quicker than he would usually take her. It was urgent, pure lust driving each movement. Margaret could do nothing but hold herself up on her forearms as he took her, their pants and groans mingling in the air surrounding them.

“Oh, fuck.” He muttered, his front, as bare as she was, pressed against her. She nearly lost her balance, until one strong arm wrapped around her to keep her steady. 

If she was of sounder mind, she would realise he must be terribly doubled over, for their heights and the desk did not match at all. As it was, she was too elated to care - and so, apparently, was he. His hips grew erratic as he neared the edge, Margaret’s own pleasure building alongside. It was too much; the feel of the wood against her skin, the cold floor beneath bare feet, the relentless, punishing pace of her husband. She came with a hoarse scream, fingers clawing just to find something to dig into as pleasure drowned her.

She heard John curse and groan above her, felt as he finished inside her. She smiled, boneless with satisfaction as his body left hers. She turned, exhausted to the very marrow, until her back rested on the desk and smiled up at him.

“Happy birthday darling.”

“No more mention of birthdays. I’m old enough.”

“Nonsense.” 

Realising her head was dangerously near a pot of ink, Margaret held out a hand in a silent request to be lifted into a sitting position. He obliged, pulling her forward into a tight embrace. He stood between her legs, holding her close in the silence. Against her ear, Margaret could hear the rapid thud of his heart. It matched her own frantically beating pulse, excitement not yet fading away.

“You know,” he rumbled, his voice vibrating through his chest. “I may have had dreams of Miss Hale, but I was wrong. Having Margaret Thornton here was better than anything I could have imagined.”

Margaret merely grinned against his skin, too giddily exhausted to say anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to TheScribbler_CMB for coming up with some of the ideas featured in this story. You can find me on twitter on @claudialomond, come say hello! Please let me know if there's anything you'd like to see. There are more family (and family friendly..!) chapters coming up soon. This will probably be the last smut one for a while as I don't want to do too many in a row. Sorry for the long wait, I had my appendix out in June and they apparently took any creativity I had with it..! Hope you're all well, thank you for reading!


	13. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is family friendly (it’s a miracle!)

“Mama.”

Margaret was vaguely aware of something poking her face. She batted it away, turning over and curling up into a ball. 

“She not wakin’ up.”

“Mama!” 

This time, a tug on the long braid she wore her hair in to sleep made her eyes snap open. She yelped at the sudden pain at her scalp, hand flying to her head to see what had caused it. She was met with another hand, tiny and warm.

Panicked, she sat up and turned to find all four of her children staring at her. It was pitch dark, yet somehow she knew they were there. As her eyes adjusted, she could see their outlines; Penny and Arthur in the back, the two little ones standing in front of them clinging to each other.

“What is it?!” She asked in a panic, leaning forward and placing her hands on the two youngests’ foreheads. Cool. “What’s wrong?”

She checked Arthur and Penny’s heads too, relieved to find them perfectly well. 

“There’s a ghost.” Susie piped up. “We saw it.”

“What?” Margaret rubbed her face, sinking back against the pillow in tired relief. “No darling, there’s no ghost. All of you, back to bed before you wake your father.”

“Too bloody late.” John grumbled from beside her. “It’s Sunday. Go to bed.”

“But Papa-!” Said all fourin perfect unison.

“Don’t ‘but Papa’ me. There’s no ghost. Get back to bed.” He mumbled, his voice thick and heavy. “Now.”

“But I’m scared!” Susie said, her little voice trembling. Margaret grinned, for the girl knew precisely how to wind her father right around her little finger. “Please Papa!”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts.” John insisted, not moving from his side of the bed. “Arthur, take them back to bed.”

“I saw it too.” He said quietly. “Honest!”

“I’ll go.” Margaret reluctantly pulled the covers back and climbed out of bed. The floor was cold beneath her feet. “Go back to sleep.”

She lit the candle she kept by her bed. Carefully moving so the light illuminated the room, she could see John still had his eyes firmly closed. He rose early and went to bed late; the little sleep he managed was sacred. Sundays were the only day he did not rise before dawn, and heaven help the person who disturbed him then. There would be cross words in the morning, she was certain. 

“Are you sure?” He asked, eyes still closed as he remained stock still. 

“I think I am brave enough to tackle a ghost.” She teased. “Come on then. Say goodnight to Papa.”

“Goodnight Papa.” The quartet said, and Margaret ushered them out of the bedroom. 

“Now, where did you see this ghost?” Margaret whispered, not wanting to wake the whole house. She did not think Hannah would be particularly impressed by the sight of Margaret trailed by four bare footed children out of bed at this hour. She already thought the pair of them were far too lenient with the children - at this exact moment, Margaret begrudgingly conceded she might have a point. 

“In the nursery.” 

“We heard footsteps, an’ creakin’!”

“It was big and white and floating, Mama!”

The whispered explanation from the three youngest made her smile, for even though they claimed to be terrified she could hear the excitement in their voices. Margaret glanced at the clock in the hallway; half past one in the morning. She yawned heavily; she did not do well when woken in the middle of the night. It was the one thing she did not miss about having small babies in the house - now they were all older, an undisturbed nights sleep was usually guaranteed. 

As they walked into the nursery, shadows dancing on the wall as the tiny flame cast the room in an eerie half light, she couldn’t help but laugh. Hanging from the wardrobe door were Penelope and Susannah’s spare nightgowns, presumably placed there to dry by one of the servants after the children went to sleep. 

The alleged creaking noise and footsteps could presumably be explained by someone walking around upstairs late at night, or merely the house itself making strange noises as houses did late at night. Margaret stifled a laugh, then swallowed it down. Children scared so easily, and she supposed seeing two floating white objects in the middle of the night might be rather frightening. Dixon had managed to sleep through the entire debacle, which Margaret secretly thought was a blessing. She did not appreciate being disturbed for nonsense, as she called it. This ghost hunt would certainly qualify.

“Darlings, it’s not a ghost. Did any of you stop to touch it before you ran away?”

All four shook their heads. She placed the candle down and took the two white dresses off the wardrobe. Kneeling down so that she was child height, she offered them out. Susie, though one of the gowns was her own, shrank back with a wobbling lower lip. Joseph rolled his eyes, shoving past her and touching it. 

“Is alright.” He nodded haughtily, pushing his twin forward so she might touch it too. “Nothin’ to be scared of.”

Margaret chuckled at his sudden bravery and frank assessment of the situation. She reached out, stroking his dark hair fondly. Normally, he flinched, for he did not like being babied, but tiredness and the little remnants of fear meant he leaned into her touch, before flinging his arms around her neck and cuddling into her. She smiled, rubbing his back as she stood up. He was four now, and such a show of affection was a rare occurence indeed. 

“I know things can look scary in the dark, but really - it’s only the girls’ night clothes. Nothing more.” Margaret eyed her eldest son with suspicion. “Arthur, you’ve not been telling the little ones your stories again?”

“He said there are monsters on the hill.” Penny said, earning a fierce, furious glare from her brother. “And that they come down at night and try to eat people.”

“Arthur!” Margaret said. “How many times have I had to tell you, you’re not to scare your brother and sisters. Monsters on the hill, of all the things. You’ve scared yourself too, haven’t you?”

Though her eldest son claimed to be brave, he was sensitive too. He was ten, and each year seemed to calm him just a little until he was no longer the wild boy Margaret had spent so long chasing and begging to stand still for just a moment. He frightened quite easily, hated sudden loud noises and was growing to prefer reading a book to climbing and exploring as he aged. A relief, for she had had to fish him out of more than one tree when he was younger. Still, he had a mischievous side that she doubted would ever fade, a naughty twinkle in his eye. 

“No.” He stuck his chin out stubbornly. “I just wanted to make sure they were alright.”

“Hmm. Well, no ghosts, no monsters. Into bed and not another peep from any of you until morning, do you understand?”

“Yes Mama.”

She carried Joseph to his bed, placing him down and watching as he hurried beneath the covers and pulled them up right over his eyes. Shaking her head, she pulled the sheet down until his little face popped out. Child by child, she tucked each one in up to their chin and kissed their foreheads.

She made her way back to the master bedroom, eyes heavy. 

“All the ghosts banished?” John asked as she slipped back into bed and blew out the candle. “Can I get some sleep without being haunted?”

“No ghosts - two clean nightgowns hung on a door to dry.” Margaret laughed, and John chuckled with her. She smiled as his arms wrapped around her waist as he pulled her so that her back was pressed tightly to his chest. “Go back to sleep, my love.”

“Alright. G’night.” He kissed her cheek, rolling away from her as he settled into his usual sleeping position. “If those children come back in here tonight, a ghost will be the least of their problems.”


	14. Trying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret has a plan.
> 
> (Set around two years after the end of A Life Together)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note this chapter has a content warning for discussion of conception, pregnancy, pregnancy envy and non-explicit mild sexual content.

John found Margaret at their desk, a look of concentration on her face that suggested she did not wish to be disturbed as she wrote on a piece of paper. She looked up briefly, nodding to acknowledge his presence as pen continued to meet paper with strangely frenzied energy. He had not seen her in such a state of focus for some time.

“Evening. What are you doing?” He sat down on his side of the wide desk, peering over.

She continued her writing, not meeting his eyes. As her hand moved down, he could see she had written a list of dates. He watched as she wrote another, before she set down the quill and looked at him with a look of steeled determination.

“I wish to have another baby.” Margaret said finally.

This was a conversation they had had before; Arthur was getting older, and Margaret dearly wanted to give him a sibling. He had seen her sadness as the months passed and nothing changed, but he assumed it would happen when it was meant to.

“I know.” John said, brow furrowing as he tried to understand the connection between their desire to have a second child and the list of numbers in front of her.

“I have been talking to Mrs Slickson about the difficulty we have been having in that matter.” Margaret continued as she dipped the quill in the inkpot. “I saw her today.”

“Margaret-“

Margaret held up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence, for she knew exactly what he was going to say.

“Oh hush, she’ll not tell her husband anything. In truth, I think she barely speaks to him.” Margaret said lightly. “She did not have much good to say about him, certainly.”

“Does anyone?” John joked. “What were you talking to her about?”

“I was saying to her how disheartening it is, to have such a wait between children. Arthur is two now, and still, the cradle is empty. I don’t want him to grow up alone, John.”

“He won’t. We’ll have another, and another and another if that is what you want.”

“Well, Mrs Slickson said something most interesting. She asked when we - when we..” Margaret raised her eyebrows suggestively.

John nearly choked.

“Do you mean to say you’ve been discussing the particulars of our bedroom over tea with Mrs Slickson?!”

Margaret shook her head, looking suspiciously guilty as she tried to dismiss his concern.

“Oh, calm down darling. I was not going into any sordid detail. No, she merely wished to know how close to my course we lay together. Apparently, one is most likely to conceive a child at a certain time. Why has nobody told me this before?! Doctor Donaldson certainly hasn’t.”

John could not comment on that, for he had not heard of such a thing before. Women seemed to know things that men did not, a secret world even doctors were not party to. He stood, crossing to her side of the desk and standing behind her, looking down at the dates written on the sheet.

“When, then?”

Margaret began to write out the days of the week in a horizontal line, writing the date of each week at the side. When she had done this, she marked several consecutive days with a star. She pointed to them.

“In the middle, for a matter of days. So I have made a list of the dates of all my courses in the last six months, so that I might predict when the next one will come. I already know, but I prefer to have it clear to see in front of me. Then, I will calculate when it would be best to..”

“So coy, my love, for one who is planning a timetable of when we should fuck.”

“John! Hold your tongue!” Her cheeks turned a shade of crimson instantly, her eyes darting to the door to make sure nobody had overheard his coarse remark. “This isn’t crude. This is practical.”

“I’ll show you practical.”

“Not until next week.” Margaret tapped the sheet of paper as he kissed her neck. “Mrs Slickson said if one truly wishes to conceive, then it is best to save oneself for these times. Things are - more potent, she said.”

John recoiled in disgust, any desire he might have felt safely quashed.

“The thought of Slickson being potent is not one I wish to have in my head.”

“I’m sorry. They have so many children I am inclined to take her seriously. Anyway, she said that it is most likely to be successful if we join as often as we can in these few days.”

“At night, for several days in a row? I’ll be dead by the second morning.”

She laughed, screwing the lid back on the inkpot as she set the quill aside.

“Mm, I certainly do not wish to kill you. I was thinking, perhaps you could pay me a visit over lunch?” Margaret tapped the paper again. “And before you leave for work?”

He raised an eyebrow, for her demands were said in the most business-like tone. Sat at the desk with her head bent over her carefully written list of dates, this felt rather like a military operation.

“How do you know this is even true? Mrs Slickson isn’t the most reliable source.”

“It might all be nonsense.” Margaret’s shoulders sagged as her voice became tinged with something John recognised all too well as despair. “But, would it hurt to try? I will do anything. I am tired of waiting.”

“Alright. We’ll take Mrs Slickson’s advice.”

* * *

By the end of the following week, John could scarcely keep his eyes open. For the past three days, his wife had made near-constant demands for his attentions. He had obliged, of course. He was a fair and loving husband.

He had woken to her hands on him, her lips at his neck even though it was the middle of the night. At lunchtime, she summoned him to the bedroom - he had noticed a few raised eyebrows in the yard as he had returned to work with his coat on inside out. At night, he had held her close, words of love filling the space between them.

However, by the third day, he was exhausted. When Margaret made to reach for him, for the third time that day, he could not keep up the pretence.

“Maggie, enough. If you want any babe of ours to have a father, let me rest, woman.”

“Have I overworked you?” She asked, running her hand down his face and over his chest. “I’m sorry, darling. I just - it’s all I’ve been able to think about.”

“It will happen, love.”

“I hope so.” Margaret lay her head down on the pillow, closing her eyes as she turned away from him.

He felt the bed begin to shake, and he knew all too well that she was holding in her tears. She trembled with the effort, and it broke his heart.

“Hey, now. None of that.” He nudged her hair with his nose, arms wrapping around her waist and tugging her back so she melted into him.

“What is wrong with me?” Margaret asked. “Why is it so very difficult? It seems to be easy enough for everyone else. Dolores is with child as often as I change my shoes!”

“Margaret, it’s alright. It will happen, just as it happened before.”

“At least we have Arthur.” Margaret said, turning over to face him once more. Her eyes shone. “If we never have another child, at least we have a boy as wonderful as he is.”

“We’ll have more children, I know it.”

“You cannot know such a thing for certain.”

He kissed her, softly and sweetly, feeling tears on her lips. He would do anything to make her happy, anything to take this terrible sadness away from her.

“Then I hope for it.”

* * *

The month after, John approached his wife.

“Am I needed?” He asked with a wry smile. “It is the middle of the month.”

Margaret smiled softly, her eyes sparkling as she looked up at him.

“I think not. My course did not come.”

“Really?”

“I thought you knew.” She frowned. “I assumed you’d noticed.”

“No.” John said, shaking his head. “No, I hadn’t.”

“Nothing is certain yet.” Margaret exhaled, nerves flickering over her face. “But I’m hopeful.”

John lowered his hand to the still flat expanse of his wife’s stomach. She covered his hand with hers, pressing him tight to the place where, unbeknownst to them, their daughter grew.


	15. The Haunting of Marlborough Mills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is suitable for all. Happy Halloween!

Something strange was happening at Marlborough Mills.

When her hairbrush went missing in the middle of the night, she was puzzled. She thought herself a light sleeper, for she usually woke at the first sound of tiny footsteps invading her room. It must be the children; Joseph especially had a fondness for thievery. She asked him about it at breakfast, but he denied all knowledge. He was an awful liar, and he defended himself so earnestly that Magraret was inclined to believe him.

“Where’s my shaving brush?” John asked one morning before the sun had risen. “I cannot find it anywhere.”

“Hmm?” Margaret sat up, rubbing at her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Four.”

“Already?” She yawned. “Must you be up so early? Come back to bed.”

“I’m running late.” He grumbled back, still continuing his fruitless search. “Court starts at eight and I have things to do first.”

“You must sleep, darling. You look exhausted.”

“I’ll sleep when the Quarter Sessions are over. Damn this blasted thing.” He cursed, dropping the razor and apparently giving up any idea he might have had of shaving.

Margaret sank back into the bed, watching as he dressed for the day in the near pitch black. He had lit a fire, and she wished it was just a little brighter - the room was frigid in the early morning, her fingers icy cold as she pulled the sheets closer to her.

“The bed is cold without you.”

“I’m sorry, love. A few more weeks and my duty will be done until Spring.”

John’s duty as a magistrate had overtaken their lives. Though he was called to court every four months or so for the Quarter Sessions, this year had been the busiest yet. Another magistrate was unable to perform his duties due to illness, and John had taken his place - meaning twice the cases he usually oversaw. The mill, too, was a most demanding mistress as new contracts came in and production increased to meet the demand. He had not taken his place at the dinner table for some time, and she had not seen him in bed before midnight for weeks. He appeared to be truly exhausted; dark rings beneath his eyes, his face visibly thinner and tight with stress.

“Must you be such a fine magistrate?” She asked, eyes closing. “Between the mill and your work at the court, I have scarcely seen you. Any sign of that brush?”

“No. I’ve got to go. Tell Joseph to stop it with his light fingers.” He walked to the bed, buttoning up his shirt as he accepted his defeat.

A week later, she had found all of her earrings lying on the dining room table in a strangely neat, precariously balanced, pile. The jewllery box that they were stored in was sitting beside it, though on top of that was one of John’s cravats. She frowned; it made such little sense that she could scarcely believe her eyes. 

The following day, one of the servants came to her after they had finished their dusting.

“Mistress, I found this on top of one of the bookshelves in yours and t’Master’s study.”

She held out an object Margaret had never seen outside of its owners possession; John’s pocket watch, passed to him from his father. It was the most precious object he owned; it lay on his bedside table at night. There was no feasible way one of the children could have stolen it without waking their father - no way at all.

“A bookshelf?” Margaret asked incredulously, taking the watch and turning it over in her hand to ensure it was as she thought. “On the top shelf?”

The servant, a young girl called Peggy, shook her head. She fiddled with her hands, apparently nervous. 

“No, Mistress. Right on the very top. Knocked it clean off with my duster, I did. Lucky I caught it in time.”

“Thank you. I will give it back to the Master, I’m sure he has noticed it missing. I am grateful you caught it, and I am sure he would want me to extend his most sincere thanks for your care in your tasks.”

She walked away utterly confused. The bookshelf in question was taller than John; the children would have to have used a chair to reach such a height, and they were certainly not left unattended for long enough. No, she conceded, perhaps her boys were not to blame for this. So, she was left without an explanation.

That afternoon, when relaying the series of strange events to her sister in law, Margaret got a most unexpected explanation.

“Oh, that’ll be the ghost,” Fanny said lightly as she dropped sugar into her tea. “I wondered when he’d reappear.”

“Ghost?!” Margaret asked, trying desperately to stifle her laughter, for her sister in law looked most unusually serious. “What are you talking about?”

“Has John never told you? Oh, how long have you lived here now and you’ve never heard of the house ghost! Well, the Thornton ghost really - it has followed us around for years, wherever we went. Creaking in the night, things going missing. One morning, John woke to all his books piled one on top of the other, just in time to see them crash to the floor.”

“Goodness. Well, he has certainly never mentioned this to me before. The children have fancied seeing figures in the dark, but the culprit was found - clean nightgowns for the girls. A ghost indeed!”

“You may laugh,” Fanny said, sipping her tea and setting it down with a scowl “But ask John. It’s been haunting this house for years.”

“It hasn’t followed you then?” Margaret teased.

Fanny shook her head, looking strangely mournful.

“No! Our house is far too fine for a common ghost that steals things. I am certain any spirit that might haunt me would be far less obtrusive. Oh, it is so in fashion to have a ghost.” Fanny sighed wistfully. “But no, my house is not in the least haunted.”

“Fashion indeed! People pretending to hear strange voices, or hiding around corners in sheets. I will have no talk of such rubbish! The children are already frightened of nightdresses, I’ll not make it worse.”

“Fanny thinks there is a ghost.” Margaret remarked to Hannah over dinner that night. “That the spirit must be responsible for all of the missing items. I still think it is Joseph, no matter how earnestly he protests.”

Her mother in law shifted in her chair, not quite meeting Margaret’s gaze. Surely a woman so sensible as Hannah Thornton would not believe in the existence of ghosts?! It seemed quite absurd that someone so staunch in their opinions could believe that a spirit was taking the time to hide a hairbrush.

“You think it foolish. But I cannot explain it, Margaret. Strange things happened over the years, items missing, in strange places..I have tried to think of how they came to be. But I could not. It happened first just before John was born; I woke to find the mantle clock in the fireplace. What servant would do such a thing in the dead of night? And then through the years, more strange things. It continued long after my husband’s death, following us from house to house. It’s settled these past few years, mind.”

“I just cannot understand it. Why has nobody ever mentioned it before?! There must be a simple explanation.”

“Perhaps.” Hannah shrugged, resuming eating and indicating to Margaret that she had no wish to continue the conversation. 

That night, just before she readied for bed, Margaret peeped around the nursery door. Four sleeping children, just as she had hoped to see. She gave the room a cursory glance, wondering if she would find the treasure of stolen items beneath Joseph’s bed as she expected. No, it was not worth the risk of waking him. 

She walked back to her own bedroom, puzzling once more at the curiosity of it all. Some might blame a servant, but Margaret did not think any of the women in their employ would risk a stable, well respected job for such petty criminality. Besides the pocket watch, which in truth held a greater sentimental than monetary worth, the items missing were not valuable in any way at all - a hairbrush, a shaving brush...what use would a thief have with such mundane items when there were far more valuable things in the house? 

She fell asleep none the wiser.

Some hours later, Margaret jolted upright. A creak, long and loud, sounded outside the bedroom door. She reached over for John but found his side of the bed unoccupied, the sheets still immaculate and smooth beneath her fingers. He had not even come to bed. Her heart pounded with fear; where was he?!

No, she told herself, he would have slept in the spare room. He did that on some nights where he had been kept away for longer than usual, not wishing to wake her. He will be in the spare room. Calm yourself.

Fumbling for matches, she lit the candle she kept by her bed. She would not lie here, trembling with terror. There simply had to be another cause of this disturbance; a child out of bed was the first thought that came to her.

One thud after another broke through the silence; there was no mistaking that sound for anything other than what it was - a footfall on the stairs. She walked to the door, taking her dressing gown and quickly covering herself. As she crept through the quiet corridors, she scolded herself for giving into Fanny’s silly stories. 

“There is no such thing as ghosts.” She reminded herself in a soft whisper. “There is no such thing as ghosts.”

Inhaling deeply to try and calm her jangling nerves, she cautiously placed one foot on the top step. From below, a crash of glass. Without a second thought, she ran towards the source of the noise. She did not stop to think that it could be intruders (who would surely get a shock at the sight of the Master’s wife in little more than a dressing gown armed only with a candle), determined only to lay this ridiculous ghost story to rest.

“I-is anyone there?” She called out in a trembling voice. She swallowed thickly, willing herself to be brave. “Anyone?”

There was no reply, the only sound the faint shuffling of feet. She straightened herself; she would not cower in the hallway.

Holding her candle in front of her, willing her eyes not to squeeze shut, Margaret stepped into the sitting room. She felt her entire body sag with relief, for the figure in front of her was certainly no fearsome phantom.

“John!” She exhaled as the tension left her. As she watched him, moving around the sitting room in the pitch dark illuminated only by her candle’s small flame, her relief turned to confusion. “What are you doing up so late?”

There was no response. She watched, puzzled, as he moved her sewing box from by her chair to the dining table. Then, as though he were stacking pebbles on a beach, he placed a book atop the sewing box, followed by a discarded spinning top that had escaped the nursery. 

“John.” She said again. “What in heaven’s name are you doing?!”

Still there was no reply. She stepped forward, only be tugged back by some unseen force.

“Leave him.” 

Margaret shrieked, the cold hand on her shoulder and the voice in her ear startling her so much it was a miracle she managed to cling onto the candle. She turned, seeing Hannah stand behind her. Her eyes were fixed on her son, a tiny smile quirking on her lips. Margaret’s wailing had not disturbed him, for he continued his strange stacking - this time adding a cushion to the precarious pile. 

“He will not answer me.” Margaret said. “I have called him, but-”

“He won’t answer you. Sleepwalking.” Hannah let out a little puff of air, shaking her head. “All these years and I had no notion he did such a thing. I suppose this’ll be our ghost, then.”

“I suppose so. But - you said that it all began before he was born.”

Hannah thought for a moment, before shrugging. 

“Stranger habits have been passed father to son, I’d dare say.”

“Well, what should we do?” Margaret asked. “Do we - do we wake him?”

“No. Take his arm and gently lead him back upstairs. Don’t wake him, it’ll shock him.”

“Alright.” Margaret walked into the room, slowly walking to her husband’s side. She did not know whether she should speak to him; she did not want to alarm him, but she also did not want to startle him with her touch. “John, darling. I’m going to hold your arm and take you back to bed. We are going to walk slowly, be careful. It is very dark.”

Hannah lead the way, taking the candle as Margaret gingerly guided her husband up the stairs. He was walking quite normally, and Margaret could scarcely believe that he was asleep at all. 

Bidding his mother goodnight, Margaret steered him into their bedroom. It was pitch dark, for she had not retrieved the candle from Hannah, and she stumbled over something. Letting out a yelp as she tried not to fall, John caught her.

“Where am I?” John asked, his voice thick as she straightened herself up. “What - where-”

“Hush. It’s alright, you were sleepwalking. You’re in our bedroom, you went downstairs. You were piling objects-”

He groaned, walking away from her in the darkness and sitting on the bed. He lit the lamp beside his bed, the gentle glow casting shadow over him. Margaret stood, watching as he shook his head. .

“Not again. I thought all that was past me now.”

“You knew?” Margaret asked, sitting beside him on the bed and taking his hand. 

“Aye.” He rubbed at his face. “It’s happened for years. Whenever I don’t get enough sleep, when I’m stressed.”

“Your mother had no idea. How did you hide it from her all those years?!”

Though she did not say it, she was most surprised John had managed to keep anything a secret from his mother - who had eyes like a hawk and noticed everything. Had he really managed to roam in darkness and never be caught?!

“At first, I didn’t know myself. I would go back to bed and wake up in the morning thinking Fanny had been playing tricks. Then, as time went on, I began waking up in the middle of it. Finding myself in the yard in only my nightclothes was the strangest thing that’s ever happened.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Margaret asked. “We have been married almost ten years!”

“It slipped my mind, in truth. I would have told you had it happened, but it hasn’t. Not as far as I know, at least.”

“What causes it?”

“Lack of sleep. Times of crisis. Whenever I need sleep the most, my body rejects the very idea of it.”

“Your mother thinks your father did it too. That he was the ghost, before you.”

“I dare say he did. He slept little and carried great weight on his mind.” John shrugged, but a small smile played on his lips. Really, he could not keep a secret from her - she knew him far too well for that.

“You knew.” Margaret said. “You knew that he sleptwalk.”

John sighed. 

“Aye, I knew. I was home from school one week. Around the time - just before he..” he paused, unable to finish his sentence. Margaret placed her hand on his, her thumb stroking over his knuckles. “I saw him. I didn’t wake him, just watched. I told nobody; I think I thought it was funny, to let Mother believe there was a ghost. It slipped my mind when he died, I never thought of it until it started happening to me. I didn’t want to worry her.”

“Does this mean Arthur will sleepwalk? Or Joseph?” Margaret asked, falling back onto the pillows in despair. “I’m not certain I can cope with their naughtiness at all hours of the night.”

John chuckled, pulling her closer and resting his chin on the top of her head. She inhaled deeply, relieved to have him back in his rightful place beside her. 

“I hope not.” 

She wriggled back, looking up at him as she realised there was still a question going unanswered. 

“Wait, if it was you all this time - where is my hairbrush? And your shaving brush?” 

“I don’t know.” John admitted sheepishly. “I’ll buy you a new one and chain it to the table. I’m sorry.”

Margaret laughed, leaning up to kiss him softly. Now that she was certain they were not being haunted, the whole thing was rather funny. 

“I have a spare, or my hair would be quite a bird’s nest by now! I shall have to lock it away.”

Below them, the clock chimed three. John froze, his body turning stiff against her as he tensed. She only held him closer, knowing precisely why he was no longer relaxed.

“I need to be up in half an hour. I must see to the mill before the Sessions begin.”

“No.” Margaret placed her hand on his chest, forcing him down. “I have had enough. You are not to make yourself ill. The mill will last through this. Your mother and I can do what you need, as well as the men you pay handsomely yet never seem to let do any work! You need to sleep, John. You are exhausted, so overworked that you cannot stop even in slumber!”

“Did you really think there was a ghost?” He asked, trying not to laugh. 

“No!” Margaret exclaimed. “I thought I was the only person in this house with any sense left! Although I must admit, creeping around in the dark hearing all those strange noises..perhaps I was a little frightened. I was certainly relieved to find it was only you!”

“I’ll have to try harder next time.” He teased. “Perhaps I’ll get some clanking chains.”


	16. Childlike Curiosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret is expecting again and her eldest son has some questions to ask. This chapter is set about four months after the end of A Life Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for a very brief mention of baby loss.

The clock struck six as Margaret finally returned from the schoolhouse. She had not been teaching for some weeks, but liked to call in at the end of each day to help set things straight and see if anything needed to be done. John said she was fussing, that she ought to be putting her feet up before the baby came, but really, she enjoyed the chance to be useful. She opened the front door and was immediately greeted by Arthur. She had not taken him with her today, leaving him instead with Dixon and his grandmother. Judging by the weary look on Dixon’s face as she carried Penny up the stairs, he must have been rather challenging. He bounced in place as he waited for Margaret to remove her coat, staring up at her expectantly.

“Good evening, Arthur. Have you been good?” Margaret asked, unbuttoning her coat and hanging it up.

From upstairs, the sound of Dixon scoffing could be heard as clearly as though she were standing beside them. Margaret bit her lip, knowing exactly what was coming.

“Grandmother says I am impossible.” Arthur announced cheerily.

Margaret sighed, walking into the drawing room with Arthur trailing behind. She would surely hear a detailed list of all of her eldest child’s escapades this evening at dinner. Though Hannah loved him, she found him rather a challenge. Though he so closely resembled John in appearance, his temperament was a little closer to his mother’s - though Margaret was sure she was never quite so naughty as all this.

“Oh, Arthur. That really won’t do!What did you do this time?”

There was a sheepish silence, and she knew she would get no answers from her boy tonight. She eased herself onto the settee, the large swell of her belly making her rather more cumbersome than usual. Her feet were weary, her eyes heavy with tiredness. Arthur sat down beside her, closing the gap between them and curling up against her like a little cat. She smiled, closing her eyes and wrapping an arm around him.

“Mama?” Arthur asked after a time, his voice stirring Margaret as she neared sleep.

“Yes, darling?” Margaret mumbled, eyes still closed.

“Can I ask you somethin’?”

Margaret prised her eyes open, looking down at his sweet face. His smile had vanished, his eyebrows knitted together as he looked very serious indeed.

“Of course. Anything.”

He chewed his lip, picking at his fingers as he stared down at his hands. Margaret gently separated one hand from another, placing them back in his lap. Arthur could rarely sit still. Even when he slept; Margaret would often go into the nursery in the morning and find his feet on the pillow.

“Don’t fidget, my love. You know how it irritates Papa.”

“Sorry, Mama.”

“Now, what is it you wanted to ask me?”

“I have a question.”

“Yes, I know. I am waiting to hear it.”

“It’s about the baby.”

“Yes?”

“I was - I was talking to Louise and-” Arthur began, his voice fading into an indistinct muttering.

“Arthur, dear, please don’t mumble like that. I can barely hear a word you’re saying.” Margaret said. “Did Aunt Fanny pay a visit here today while I was gone?”

Arthur nodded, chewing his lip. Margaret waited for the question he was apparently so anxious to ask. Nothing came.

“Well? Your question?”

“How did the baby get in there?” He asked in a jumbled rush.

Margaret blinked in surprise. It was not a rude question, merely a natural curiosity. Arthur was almost six now, and his younger sister had been born so long ago that she was not surprised he could not recall any of the conversations they had had at the time. Although the question was perfectly reasonable, Margaret had not expected it.

“How do you think it happened?” she asked cautiously.

Arthur looked down at his feet once more. He looked like he was about to cry.

“Louise said you ate it.” He said, horror lacing the softness of his voice. His blue eyes filled with tears. “Mama, you didn’t did you? You wouldn’t do something as dreadful as that?”

Margaret frowned, staring down at the roundness of her belly. She was seven months into her time and far larger than she had been in any of her previous pregnancies. Arthur had never had such curiosity before; he had merely accepted that there would be a new baby soon with a shrug of his shoulders. Now he was older, it was not so unexpected that he had a natural curiosity about such things.

What was truly surprising is that Arthur had been discussing it with his cousin. Louise did not know much of the world, sheltered rather obsessively by her mother. Fanny did not like her knowing too much, believing it would upset her to know the cruelty and hardship that existed. Margaret wondered if it was Fanny’s own upbringing, the loss of her father before she was even out of the cradle and the ensuing financial difficulties, that made her so desperate to protect her own daughter from any manner ofsadness.

Fanny had made the choice - and Margaret knew that it was a choice, for she had said as much on many occasions - to not have any more children. So Louise had grown up with only the company of her cousins and a select few playmates that Fanny deemed acceptable. The girl had developed quite an imagination.

“No, darling. I did not eat the baby.” Margaret ran a hand over the dark mop of his hair, so very like his father’s. “Louise is quite mistaken. You cannot eat a baby!”

“She said it was like a seed that you swallow.” Arthur continued, folding his arms defiantly, certain this time that he had caught her out.

He was a stubborn little thing. He was curious about everything these days, demanding explanations for all that he saw. They indulged him, answering any number of questions about all manner of things at all hours of the day. “Why do cats have whiskers?” “Why is the sky blue?” “Where does the sun go at night?”

“No.” Margaret shook her head, trying not to laugh. “No, that isn’t quite how it happens.”

“Then how?!” Arthur asked.

Margaret frowned; she was not sure what to tell him. She had never truly been told how a baby was made until her wedding night, though she had guessed a little for herself as she grew, as well as a few scant details from Edith. She certainly did not know how to explain it in a manner fit for a child’s ears.

Perhaps John would be better talking to him; Arthur was young, too young to know anything of love or the truth of how a baby was conceived. It was not an appropriate subject to be spoken of to anyone save a doctor, really, least of all a boy as young as this. Margaret chewed her lip as Arthur leant forward expectantly. She held a hand over her stomach, feeling the little life within her squirm and roll beneath her palm.

“I - well -” She swallowed, trying to find the right words. She did not wish to lie to him, nor did she wish to tell him the truth. Oh, what a quandary!

“Babies are created by love.”

“Love?” Arthur asked suspiciously..

“Yes. When a man and a woman - a husband and a wife..” Margaret began, desperately scrambling to think of the rest of the story. “When they love one another and wish to have a child, the love between them...creates the baby in the mama’s belly.”

Yes, Margaret thought, that would do. Not too much, yet not too ridiculous that a child might start asking more demanding questions.

“So you definitely didn’t eat the baby?” Arthur asked after a moment, his little face screwed up as he thought about her explanation. “But how does the love create the baby?”

Margaret closed her eyes, exhaustion in her bones.

“Magic, darling.” Margaret said wearily. “Magic.”

“Magic?!” Arthur scoffed, shaking her arm until she was forced to open her eyes. “Mama, none of this makes any sense!”

Margaret sighed; perhaps another child would have been placated by the vague explanation of magic, but Arthur was not. She smiled, her hands running through the tangled dark strands on his head, matted by dirt. What had he been doing today?! He seemed to attract dirt without any effort on his part. His bath water was quite black by the time he had finished with it each night.

“Not magic, as such. It is a miracle, provided by God.” Margaret corrected herself. “God gives the baby to the mama and papa, so that they might love the baby and raise them well.”

“Hmm.” He thought very hard for a minute, and shrugged. “Alright. ‘Bye Mama!”

And with that, leaving his stunned mother behind, Arthur Thornton ran off to play.

* * *

Some hours later, John crossed the icy yard to the main house. He had taken to packing up his work early and taking whatever he needed to do home with him. He enjoyed seeing the children before they went to bed, and he did not like to be too far from Margaret as she neared her time.

She greeted him as he opened the front door. She was standing on the stairs, hand on the bannister as she turned, one foot on the steps.

“Oh! You are early this evening. I was not expecting you until later.” She said, smiling broadly.

Even after all these years, it was an extraordinary thing to him to always be greeted with such affection. It warmed his heart to know his presence was welcomed, that he was needed.

“I’ve work I can do in the study. It’s cold tonight.”

“I’ll have one of the servants set the fire.” She stepped down and walked, slowly and carefully, towards him. She leant up, kissing him softly. “Darling, now that you’re home, would you mind terribly putting the children to bed? My ankles are quite horribly swollen. I would do it, but if you’re here, I think I could do with the rest.”

“Are you well?” He asked, a jolt of panic shooting through him. “Do you need the doctor?”

Margaret shook her head, sweeping her fingers along the stubbled line of his jaw soothingly.

“No. I am fine, just tired. The children have been most demanding today.” She chuckled to herself, some joke he did not share in. “Arthur has been asking endless questions. So, can I leave you to see them into bed?”

“Of course.”

They walked up the stairs together, John’s arm wrapped around his wife’s back as he helped her. She was, in all honesty, enormous. She was carrying far larger than she had before, and joked that perhaps she was giving birth to a litter rather than a baby. He wished he could take the burden from her, yet there was nothing he could do to ease the physical strain of this time. All he could do was give her his time, help where he could and do whatever she asked of him.

She paused at their bedroom door, catching her breath after the exertion of the stairs. He rubbed at her back, and she smiled up at him gratefully.

“I am fine. Just a little out of breath, that is all. Go, see to the children before Dixon pulls her hair out.”

John walked to the nursery, waiting outside the door as he heard small voices saying their prayers. At the sound of “amen”, he went inside. Dixon was carrying Penny, though in truth she was getting far too old for such babying. John held his own arms out to take her, nodding at Dixon that she might be excused for the evening.

Any thoughts that his daughter might be too old vanished as she nuzzled into him, pudgy fingers clinging to his neck as her face rested against his own. He kissed her cheek, inhaling the warm clean scent of a child freshly bathed and ready for bed. Oh, he was a devoted servant to his children and they both knew it!

“Papa, can you read us a story?” Arthur called, and John turned just in time to see him leap from one bed to the other. He gritted his teeth, willing himself to have patience. A quick narrowing of his eyes was normally enough to tell Arthur when he was going too far, and the boy dutifully muttered his apologies for jumping.

“Oh no, none of that. You have a story before your prayers, I know you do.”

Arthur crossed his arms and pouted, knowing full well he had been caught in his trick.

“Fine.”

John lowered Penny into her bed, kissing her on both cheeks before tucking the blankets up to her chin. John walked towards Arthur’s bed, dropping to his knees beside him and pulling up the blankets. He enjoyed these moments, the quiet of the nursery just before bed, the sleepy faces of the children he adored. He treasured them, savoured each moment that he could of being a father.

“Papa?” Arthur asked. “Mama said the baby got inside her because of love.”

John almost choked.

“Did she?” He asked in a slightly strangled voice. “Were you asking her about it?”

“Yes.” Arthur nodded, lowering his head onto the pillow. “Louise said she ate the baby but I didn’t think Mama would eat a baby. She doesn’t even like mutton! Why would she eat a baby?!”

John tried not to laugh at his son’s strange rambling logic, trying to maintain at least a semblance of control of this odd conversation.

“No, son. Your mother didn’t eat a baby. She’s right enough. Love, that’s what made you.”

Arthur seemed satisfied that his parents were in agreement, though he still eyed John with caution.

“Mama said that God gives you the baby. Does that mean he gave you me?”

“Aye, and your sisters.” John felt his throat tighten at the thought of the baby girl they had lost the year before. “Gifts from God, all of you.”

“So that’s how the baby got inside Mama?” Arthur asked. “And then it’ll grow until it’s ready to come out?”

“Yes.”

Arthur, who so closely mirrored his own image, fixed him with a hard stare. John frowned, unsure as to why his son was looking at him like that. He felt like the boy could see into his very soul.

“Well, how will the baby get out?”

John opened his mouth to speak and promptly closed it again. He was not sure he was up to explaining the mechanics of childbirth this evening. Instead, he kissed his son’s forehead and rose to his feet.

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

He left the nursery, clicking the door closed behind him and shaking his head, a smile on his face. He walked back to the master bedroom, tapping softly on the door.

“Come in.”

She was lying on the bed, still fully dressed with her shoes on. He frowned.

“I can’t reach my feet, and they’re too tight to kick off.” Margaret admitted, catching his pointed look at her shoes. “Will you help me?”

He sat beside her, taking her ankles in his hand and easing each shoe from her swollen feet. He frowned with concern, not liking the look of it one bit.

“You rest tomorrow.” He said, to a little noise of protest. He shook his head, and she hesitated. Finally, she nodded her head in reluctant agreement. “Thank you.”

“You do fuss over me so.”

“I want you to be well, that is all.” He paused, absently rubbing at the pad of her foot. “You might have mentioned our son demanding to know how babies are made.”

“Oh no, did he ask you too?” Margaret asked, poorly suppressing a chuckle.

“Love, is it?”

Margaret shook her head, laughing as she rolled her eyes heavenward.

“Oh John, I didn’t know what to say! I’m sure my face was quite red. Did he seem content with the answer?”

“Mmm. You might have something else to explain tomorrow though.”

“Oh, what now?!” Margaret sighed, rolling her eyes. “I have never known a child to ask so many questions! What now, does he wish to know how dragons have babies?”

John chuckled, his hand resting on her stomach. As he placed his palm on the rise of her belly, he was rewarded with a sharp kick to the heel of his hand. Perhaps this baby would be just as demanding as their brother.

“No, not about dragons. He wants to know how the baby will get out.”

Margaret clapped a hand to her forehead, groaning. After a moment, eyes closed and head resting on the pillow, she uttered one word.

“Magic?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If there is anything you'd like to see here, please let me know - I love requests! I hope you're all safe and well


End file.
